


Stranger in a Strange Land

by nanyinai



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Romance, Smut, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 69
Words: 260,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25684426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanyinai/pseuds/nanyinai
Summary: A strange woman with Sindarin steel on her hip turns up near Clemens Point without the veriest clue when and where she is, and Arthur Morgan is the first to happen along and pull her irons out of the fire. Once she's granted an audience with Dutch Van der Linde, who wants to see how useful she might be, it becomes clear that her strange abilities outstrip even the sharpest shooters amongst his boys. And there's another problem: John Marston is feeling a certain type of way about her, and he isn't the only one.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), John Marston/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 94





	1. Lemoyne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Marston takes Arthur Morgan's pissed off hostage and beds her down for the night, much to her chagrin. She's got a story that any man in his right mind would be reluctant to accept, but he isn't so sure he doesn't believe her just yet.

_Past the square, past the bridge_

_Past the mills, past the stacks_

_On a gathering storm_

_Comes a tall handsome man_

_In a dusty black coat_

_With a_ _red right hand_

_**\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds** _

________

“John! Come give me a hand with this!”

John looked up from where he’d been smoking a cigarette on the outskirts of camp, overlooking the lake they’d adopted. Arthur Morgan was riding in, and his horse was all over the place. Looked like it was spooked, John thought. He got to his feet, tossing his unfinished smoke aside.

“John, god _dammit_ , I said get over here and -!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” John shouted, walking toward Arthur. “Jesus, keep your britches on.”

“Marston, I knew you was stupid but I never knew you was so damned _slow -"_

"You keep talkin' shit and I'll forget all about ya and go to bed, you old asshole." John approached Arthur’s horse, grasping at the reins. Arthur himself had dismounted and was trying his damndest to calm the thoroughbred, which was tossing her head and braying. John grasped the other side of the bridle and yanked hard, pulling the horse’s head toward him. Her eyes were rolling. Something had gotten under her skin, that was for sure.

“Easy there, girl,” he murmured, patting her neck gently. The thoroughbred continued to snort and stamp. “The hell you do to stir her up so much, Arthur? You get set on by somethin' on the way back?”

“Nah, it’s that damned woman on her back,” Arthur replied, strained, still pulling at the bridle and panting. There was a sparkle of sweat on his brow. “Get ‘er down, will ya, before she causes the damned beast to bolt on me? I’ll never catch her, Lord knows.”

John leered past Arthur's broad shoulders, noticing the squirming, lean form lying belly-down behind the saddle. He cast Arthur an accusatory look.

"Who the hell is _that_?"

"Never mind who she is, just get her the hell off this _horse_ , dammit!" Arthur snapped.

" _Alright_ , Arthur! Christ Almighty, but ain't you cranky . . ."

John approached her, pulled her down and put her over his shoulder. She thrashed madly in his grasp, keening against her gag. The horse calmed at once when she was removed, ears flattened, staring with rolling eyes.

“Jesus, she’s madder’n a hornet, ain’t she?” John remarked as Arthur tied his horse. “The hell’d you do to her, Morgan? This how you show ladies you're sweet on 'em these days?”

“Shit, just saved her damn life, is all, don't everybody get up and thank me at once,” Arthur replied gruffly, brushing himself off and giving John an insulted look. “Picked her up from a couple of Pinkertons fixin’ to make her into a public attraction. There was talk of takin’ turns on her like a goddamned merry-go-round, John. I ain't usually the chivalrous sort but I couldn't hardly just ride on past actin' like I didn't hear 'em talkin'."

"Well, I didn't realize you grew a conscience between yesterday and today."

Arthur smirked, tipping his hat. "Woulda spoiled my supper, that's all.”

“Shit, you coulda just turned her loose, no sense bringin' her all the way back here into this damn snake den.”

Arthur was shaking his head. “Had to get outta there quick, they was ready to blow us both fulla holes, and she was already trussed up like a Christmas turkey. What was I ‘spose to do, cut her free and leave her in the woods? Some girl probably not yet thirty wanderin' around with no weapons and no supplies? Shit, might as well just shoot her outright, she woulda suffered less. No food, no bearings -”

"Valentine, then."

"Yeah, sure, riding into Valentine after we cleaned out their bank sounds like a fine idea, John. Shit, I bet the law would probably have shaken our hands and invited us both in for tea and biscuits."

The woman thrashed on John’s shoulder, a long sheaf of dark hair rippling down his back as she did, and he staggered, grasping at her again. He struggled, stumbling and frowning irritably.

“Alright, fine, what d’ya wanna do with her, then? At least say so I can get her off me, she's all of a dither.”

“Keep ‘er here, for now,” said Arthur, arming sweat from his brow and shaking his head. “She’s not a Pinkerton, clearly, but I still ain't sure I want her runnin’ free 'til we decide just what she is. Dutch will agree, I think. We can talk to him come morning.”

"You know, in some places they call that kidnapping."

Arthur spread his arms genially, grinning. "I am what I am."

“Alright, well then where we gonna put her? Molly and Pearson won’t be happy we got another mouth to feed.”

“Ah, to hell with Molly n’ Pearson,” said Arthur, shaking his head, “just put her in the spare over there, she’ll keep for the night.”

“You don’t think she’ll make a run for it?”

“Not if she's got a _brain_ in her head,” said Arthur, emphasizing the last word pointedly as he glanced at the woman on John’s shoulder. “Ain’t no _reason_ for her to go, she’s disarmed and got nothin’ to her name ‘cept them jeans she’s wearin’. She’ll be nice. Or she’ll be dead. Either way suits me fine just this very moment.”

He slapped John’s shoulder gently.

“Talk her down, won’t ya, Marston? You’re the one who’s good at talkin’ folk down, I ain’t so hot hands, as you can well see.”

John struggled with his feet again as the woman thrashed.

“Clearly,” he said, laughing. “Alright, if you think she ain’t gonna knife us in our sleep, I s’pose . . . “

“She wouldn’t dare, not after I put my skin on the line savin’ her,” Arthur replied imperiously. “Get yourself some rest, Marston, and make sure she knows what she stands to lose should she make a run for it. We outgun her and she oughta know that, so she minds her manners.”

John nodded. He knew well enough. If she managed to bypass the bulk of the camp, she’d be damned lucky, but it would be nothing short of a blue-eyed miracle if she got past Charles and Javier. They were marksmen to rival Annie Oakley.

“Alright, go on then, leave me with all your problems as per usual,” he said, snorting.

“Well if it’s too much goddamned _trouble_ , John, give her here and I’ll -”

“Nah, she’s already on my shoulder, go on to bed,” said John, shaking his head. And when Arthur hesitated, “ _go on_ , Arthur, for Christ’s sake.”

“Alright, alright, fine,” said Arthur, sounding put off, “Christ, Marston, you sure are bossy tonight. I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

John watched him slouch away, then started toward the spare tent. The woman on his shoulder thrashed a bit more.

“Calm yourself, woman, it’s just a bed,” he said, and patted her shoulder gently. “Just a bed, now. No need to get yourself into a tiff. We’re tryin’ to be good to ya.”

The tent overlooked the lake on the other side of the bayou, and in all honesty it wasn’t a bad spot. The lake, modest though it was, gently lapped at the shore only a few short steps from where John himself made his bed. He’d been a little skeptical about this place, just like Dutch had been - they knew next to nothing about the fall of the land, and Rhodes was a sleepy little town that gave John the willies, for some reason - but he had grown rather fond of it over the past few weeks. It was awfully pretty, even if the air was thick enough to cut with a knife sometimes and the cicadas and loons were loud as klaxons in the early mornings.

John laid the woman in the bed and bent over her, knife held at the ready.

“Take it easy, now,” he said gently. “I’m gonna untie you now, and if we ain’t amiable about it there’s liable to be worse problems. This here is a place for you to rest up. Ain’t no one gonna take advantage of you. Arthur said them Pinkertons were fixin’ to make a spectacle of you, but that ain’t the way we do things here. This here is the Van Der Linde gang. We’re not that way. You understand?”

The woman craned her neck, nodding, and the one hazel eye John could see marked him.

“You gonna behave? If I cut ya loose?”

She nodded again.

“Ain’t gonna try to run me through? Or do nothin’ stupid?”

She shook her head.

“Alright, then. Hold still.”

His knife was deft, and in a moment her binds were cut loose. She scrambled back from him at once, yanking the kerchief from her mouth, and struggled to her feet, backing into the rear of the tent, looking at him with clear wariness.

And for the first time in his adult life, John was struck dumb by a woman. She was utterly beautiful, almost unearthly so. She was tall, lean, with long dark hair and high cheekbones, and beneath thick brows a pair of bright hazel eyes shone, angry and alert. He had never seen another like her. It took a moment for his tongue to come unglued.

“Ma’am, please, I apologize."

"For which part?" the woman snapped waspishly. "I've got a laundry list, brother."

John hesitated, feeling inept. "My name is John Marston.”

“I bet it is.” The woman was getting to her feet. "You boys in the habit of snatching up strangers? They'll throw you in the clink for that type of shit where I come from."

"Well, no, we ain't." John eyed her warily. She was edging toward the mouth of the tent already, and he raised both his hands, palms out, seeing where this was going to go. “Now, miss, we just agreed -”

"Get it in writing next time," said the woman, and then she was moving, hideously fast.

“Hey! HEY!”

She’d damn near gotten out of his reach. Her speed . . . it was weird. Even as John threw himself at her and hoisted her back onto his shoulder by the waist, he felt a twinge of unease. Something about her was just . . . off . . .

“Let me _go_!” she hissed.

“I wish I could, miss, but we got things to discuss,” John told her, and he deposited her back onto the bed. His hand was resting on the butt of his gun, and he let her see it clear enough. She backed up again, drawing her knees to her chest, glaring at him from beneath her brows. "Now I know you're scared, but this is the way things gotta be for the nonce, and you said you’d behave seein’ as how Arthur done you a favor.”

“Yeah, he stole me away from one gang of assholes and dropped me into another one, how very august of him,” the woman said crossly, but she was curling her legs beneath her Indian-style even as she spoke, clearly a concession of concord. She knew she wasn’t getting away, at least not yet, and that pleased John. He sat slowly on the opposite side of the bed, the springs creaking rustily beneath him.

“Well, we may be assholes, but we ain’t Pinkertons,” said John. “They’re some nasty pieces of work, take it from me. You’re safe here with us, for now.”

The woman looked up at John, both hands clasped in her lap, then dropped her gaze to the bed. In the low light she seemed even more beautiful. He took the opportunity to scrutinize her, now that the immediacy of his worry she’d bolt like a spooked mustang had passed; she was wearing strange clothes, something he wondered if Arthur had noticed. The jeans and scuffed boots were easy enough to recognize, hell John had a pair or two of those himself, but the blouse was decidedly odd. It was white, sort of billowy, with two leather strings that dangled to her midsection and an open throat that exposed quite a bit of her throat and collarbone and . . . and, well, here he was, gawping at her like a schoolboy. He cleared his throat, rubbing one hand over his face. She was watching him again, perceptive enough, chewing her lip. After an evening spent tied up for a plaything in a Pinkerton camp, she was likely not a stranger to wandering eyes.

“You said your name was John?” she asked him, her voice a little warmer.

“Yes ma’am, John Marston,” he replied.

“Rane Roth,” the woman said, and to John’s bafflement she stuck out her hand.

John took it and shook, surprised. “Whereabouts do you hail from, Rane Roth? I ain’t never heard no accent like that one, and I’ve been from one end to the other.”

Rane sighed. “I'm from a lot of places. Most recently from London.”

“Well, I reckon you musta come by boat, then, and without soundin’ too limey, at that.”

“By _boat_?” Rane asked him, looking surprised. She glanced around her. “Why would I come by boat?”

John laughed. "Well how the hell else you gonna cross the ocean? Sprout wings and fly?

“What are you . . . ?” Rane trailed off. "Where am I, exactly?"

"Well, you're on the outskirts of Lemoyne," said John.

Rane leaned forward a little, her brows knitting. "Lemoyne. _Lemoyne_."

"Yeah, the very same."

"What year?"

John looked bewildered. "Huh?"

"The year. What year is this?"

"Why, it's 1899."

Rane blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“1899, miss, last I checked.” John was looking at her in perplexity. “You okay there?”

Rane stared at John for another moment, her mouth hanging slightly open, then passed a hand over her face, her gaze drifting away from his.

“Holy fuck,” she said softly. “Holy fuck, that can’t be right.”

“You okay there?” John asked her again. He wanted to reach out and touch her wrist, but found he could not quite bring himself to do it. “You come over kinda pale, miss -”

“My wand,” said Rane, looking up at him. “And my sword. Did - did either of them - did that guy that brought me in -?”

“Arthur,” John supplied.

“Arthur, yeah, did he have anything of mine?” She reached out and grasped John’s forearm, and to his rather embarrassed surprise he felt a flurry in his stomach at her touch. “Anything? Any of my stuff?”

“I dunno, I surely didn’t think to ask,” John replied, still feeling quite bewildered. “Somethin’ of yours you need? We got lots of supplies if it’s -”

“No, no, these are . . . these are special,” Rane told him, shaking her head. “I need them. Both of them.”

“Well, now, if you promise not to run off on me, I’m happy to go ask him,” John said haltingly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rane said at once, looking at him baldly. “Cross my heart.”

John looked at her appraisingly for another moment, then hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt.

“Alright, I’m gonna trust that you won’t, against my better judgment,” he said, low. “You set right there and don’t get up to no funny stuff, or we’re gonna have ourselves some problems. Not to sound too ungentlemanly but we got sharpshooters in this camp could hit an acorn at fifty yards. Okay?”

“You got it.”

“Alright, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

John strode off, casting a glance over his shoulder as he did. The woman - Rane - certainly didn’t _look_ like she was about to spring up and streak away. She looked badly shaken, more than anything. That grayish shade hadn’t left her face. Something John had said to her had scared the daylights right out of her, that was for sure.

Arthur was lying on his bunk at his repose, his hat tilted back over his eyes. John rapped on the wagon’s side smartly and Arthur jerked awake, flailing.

“God - _damn_ -!” Arthur slung the hat away from him, sitting up and casting John a dire look. “The hell you playin’ at, Marston, can’t you see I’m tryin’ to -?”

“That woman you brought in,” said John, folding his arms. “She have any belongings with her? A sword, she says?”

“The hell’d you do, John, left her alone? She’s probably halfway to Saint Denis by now!”

“She ain’t goin’ nowhere, I talked her down,” said John, shaking her head. “Just scared, is all, seems confused. Askin’ me what year it is and all manner of strangeness . . .”

“Well, knowin’ them Pinkertons they likely knocked her around a bit before I came upon her,” said Arthur, leaning back again and crossing his feet. He retrieved his hat from the ground and placed it over his eyes once more. “No, she didn't have nothin’ on her ‘cept the clothes she was wearin’, and with that bunch she’s lucky she got to keep that. Anything she had is still at their camp.”

“And where is that, exactly?”

Arthur lifted the tip of his hat just enough to expose one wry blue eye. “You thinkin’ about goin’ back for her effects, John?”

“Well -” John struggled, feeling suddenly inept. He wrung his hands briefly, feeling warmth rising in his face. “Well, I just may at that, if it helps her get back onto her feet after all this -”

"Did she ask ya to?"

"Ah, nah, I sorta offered, I guess."

“Well would you take a look at _that_?” Arthur said, snorting. "Mean ol' Johnny Marston, doin' something nice for a stranger, for absolutely, positively no reason besides he just wanted to do some good in the world, huh? _Definitely_ not because of nothin' else! Right? Well, I say _bully for you_!" He added heartily, grinning. John gave him a sour look.

“You just always gotta say _somethin’_ , don't ya?” he snapped as Arthur laughed. “I’m just tryin' to do right, it ain't because of nothin'!"

“Oh calm down, would ya, I’m only teasin’ you,” said Arthur, dropping his hat again and grinning. “I saw how pretty she was too, y'know, I ain't dumb. They’re holed up just northwest of Rhodes, little clearing near the shore. You happy now?”

“No,” said John, and shoved at one of Arthur’s propped boots with the heel of his hand. “Go back to sleep, you old sourpuss.”

“Oh I intend to do just that.” Arthur lifted his voice to a singsong little lilt, still grinning. “'As you're fair and beauteous, oh be generous and merciful to him that is your slave, slave, _slaaaaave_ . . .'”

John rolled his eyes, turning from Arthur, and strode back toward the bayou, his face still pink.

  
  


FOR a moment, it looked like Rane really _had_ taken a powder, and John could have kicked himself for being so foolish as to let her have the chance, but then he spotted her standing on the shoreline, arms wrapped around herself, looking off into the growing darkness, the breeze teasing the ends of her long hair. He shook his head, breathing a sigh of relief, and approached her, his boots crunching in the silt.

“Miss Rane, Arthur says he didn’t have none of your things when he brought you in,” he said, drawing to her side and shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “But if you like, I’ll help you get ‘em back from the Pinkertons come dawn. Arthur says they’re hidin’ out not too far from here.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rane muttered, and struck at her thigh, frowning. She sighed. “I’d welcome a hand, yeah. I’d take ‘em on myself but I’m about as useless as tits on a bull without my sword.”

John snorted. “Well, we got plenty of guns, that’ll turn the trick just the same, miss.”

Rane looked over at John, smirking, and for a moment he was struck dumb by her once again. The late sun, red and fiery, cast her face into sharp resolution, and he felt his breath halt in his throat for a moment. _Like a goddamned teenager, that’s what you are_ , he thought to himself admonishingly. _Arthur saw right through you, John Marston, damned if he didn’t._

“Just Rane. I’m not ‘miss’ anything.” Rane looked faintly amused.

“‘Course, miss - er, ‘course, Rane.” John followed her gaze toward the bayou again. “So you feelin’ okay now? You had a funny look when I left.”

Rane laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “I tell you what, I feel batshit crazy for even saying it, but I think . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I dunno. Maybe I just need to keep my dipshit mouth shut til the morning. Like saying it out loud makes it real, you know?”

John rocked back on his heels, hands still crammed into his pockets, looking sidelong at her profile and feeling graceless. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, I’m more’n happy to -”

“Just help me get my stuff back and I’ll call it a draw,” said Rane, glancing at him. She hesitated, then added, “I know I didn’t make much of an entrance but I do appreciate you guys taking me in, even for the night. Wish I’d have come upon you guys first, rather than those fuckheads. First time being hogtied, and not too wild about doing it again.”

John laughed. “Well, m - er, Rane, I think I may just kick back now. We ain’t got much in the ways of food just this moment but Pearson’ll throw us somethin’ together come morning, he usually does.”

He pointed back toward the camp.

“I’m just over yonderways if you need anything,” he told her. “Anything at all.”

Rane followed his finger. “By the tree?”

“The very same. Now I mean it, you need anything, you come and you see me. I sleep light. Most our boys do. You’re safe with us tonight.” 

Rane glanced up at him, her face half-hidden by the growing shadows. “Thanks, John Marston. For being so nice to a stranger.”

There it was again - tingles all through his gut when she spoke his name. He felt about as helpless as some fool tied to the front of a train, with this young woman he’d met not half an hour ago getting into his head like this. Arthur’d never let him live it down if he caught scent, that was for sure. And Arthur caught most.

“Well, like I says, we may be assholes but we ain’t Pinkertons,” John replied, trying to sound gruff. “Get some sleep, and don’t go runnin’ off just yet like I asked. We’ll pay them a visit come morning.”

“Roger.”

John was about to correct her - _it’s John, miss_ \- but realized a split second before he opened his fool mouth that this was just more of her strange way of speaking, and snapped it shut again. He fumbled with a response, but in the end his nerve failed him and he turned away and strode back toward camp, pulling his hat back on. Rane watched him lope off, arms still crossed, then turned back to the bayou. Whatever was going on here, it was a nice view, at least.

  
  


THE morning dawned golden and beautiful, and Rane awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and wilderness, both of which were familiar and welcome. She sat up, the scant blanket falling off of her, and stretched richly, both hands over her head, squeezing her eyes shut and groaning.

“Well, would you look at who’s awake.”

Rane turned her head, glancing over her shoulder. Arthur stood there, one hand grasping a crass mug of steaming coffee, peering at her over it with a smirk. The early morning sun was bright and orange, casting his face into sharp resolution. His eyes were sharp and bright. Rane had the immediate impression that she wouldn’t be able to get a trick past this guy.

“I guess you decided not to run off in the night, then,” he said, sipping his mug. “Glad to see you stuck around.”

“Well, I was threatened on pain of death, so you could say I was motivated,” Rane replied dryly, getting to her feet and pulling her boots on. “But I appreciate you getting me away from those . . . those guys, whoever they are.”

“Pinkertons,” Arthur told her. He lifted his mug toward her. “And it was my pleasure, miss.”

Rane inclined her head, still yanking on her boots.

“So. I hear tell you’re goin’ off to that Pinkerton camp to reclaim what’s yours with one of my men.”

“If he’ll have me, yeah.” Rane straightened, squaring her shoulders.

“Well,” said Arthur, chuckling and shaking his head, “I daresay he’ll have ya, miss.”

Rane looked at him for a moment, her mouth downturned.

“He offered to help me.”

“I am most certain he did.”

“What's that supposed to mean?"

“Only that,” said Arthur, shaking his head. He inclined his coffee mug towards her once more. “Your good health, madam. And here’s to you getting your things back with all of us in one piece. My boy in particular.”

He moved with hideous speed towards her, his gaze sharpening, and with one hand he grasped her upper arm and drew her close. He faced her now, so close that his breath moved the stray hairs before her face. She marked every minute detail of his face, inches before hers.

“You get John Marston hurt or killed,” he said softly, “and I’ll find your trail even if you ride on to hell to get away from me. I don’t care _how_ pretty you are, you’ll still go into the ground same as any of the rest I’ve put under for tryin’ to harm that boy. You understand, girl?”

Rane's gaze hardened on his, suddenly fierce beneath his iron grip. She jerked her arm away from his roughly.

"Is that how you talk?"

"Oh, it is, sure." Arthur advanced on her another step. He was broad, taller than Rane by some four inches or so, and built like a brick shithouse, and Rane gave a pace despite herself, staring up at him warily. "You best not for a single second thing I'm kidding around. Now you understand or don't ya?"

Rane eyed him. "Yeah. Okay, fine."

"You feel pretty sure about that, darlin'?"

“I just want my stuff,” she said softly. “That’s all. Then I’ll be on my way. I don’t want to cause you guys any more trouble than I already have.”

Arthur stared at her another moment, then released her roughly. She staggered back, and Arthur leveled a finger at her over his coffee mug.

“You remember what I said,” he told her.

She rubbed her arm ruefully, watching him. "I'll do my best."


	2. Riding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John agrees to help Rane retrieve her effects from the Pinkertons, but they lapse into interesting conversation on the ride over.

_In the border town down in Mexico_   
_They let him go,_   
_Law and order now 'cause he runs the show_   
_So now you know._

\- **Morcheeba**

_____________

“And who might _this_ be?” a voice said from behind them. “Arthur’s being as gentlemanly as always, I see . . .”

Arthur was sitting himself onto a stool near the fire, eyeing Rane over his coffee. A man was approaching from behind him, one who seemed far more put together than most of the rest Rane had spotted so far. He was dark-haired, meticulously shaven, and clad all in black. _The big gun_ , Rane thought immediately. It could not have been clearer that this guy was in charge. He strode to her, one hand clutching a cigar, offering her a lopsided grin. There was a woman just at his heel, red-headed and freckled. _And there’s the first lady_ , Rane thought.

“Well, I do not believe that we have been introduced!” he said, and even his manner of speaking was grandiose, more that of a politician than an outlaw living rough. “Though I certainly cannot say I mind a new face around camp. What do they call you, my dear?”

“I’m Rane Roth,” said Rane, taking a seat next to Arthur beside the fire. “Arthur helped me out of a tight spot last night, he said I could crash here until the morning if I stayed out of trouble.”

Arthur inclined his head, one hand on his knee. “Pinkertons,” he added grimly. “They were bein’ very ungentlemanly toward the lady.”

“Well, I am happy he happened upon you, then, miss Roth,” the man in black said, and clapped Arthur on the shoulder genially. “Dutch Van Der Linde, at your service, and this here is my lady friend, Molly O’Shea.”

Molly ignored this. She was glaring at Arthur, hands on her hips. “Well, what in all hell are ye thinkin’ bringin’ her back here, Arthur, ye great prat?” she snapped. “As if we don’t have enough mouths to feed as is!”

“Hoo boy, here we go,” said Arthur, rolling his eyes and shifting. “What is it you’d have liked me to do, Miss O’Shea? Leave her stuck in that camp where the Pinkertons could do whatever the hell they wanted with her?”

“Well, if ye were gonna have a bleedin' heart over it ye coulda taken her into town and dropped her off -!”

“Bound and trussed like that? Yeeeah, sure, why not? Deputy sheriff comes ridin’ in with a woman lookin’ like that, I’m sure _that_ wouldn’t raise no eyebrows -”

“Arthur Morgan, you got a funny way o’ lookin’ at things, don’t ye?” Molly snapped, flaring. “Fella like you who’d blow a man’s head clean off but can’t be fucked ter leave a strange woman where she well ended _up_ -!”

“Well, I guess I got a little more common decency than all that, Molly, and I’m very sorry if it inconveniences you.”

“We got plenty enough, Molly,” Dutch added as she opened her mouth to retort, looking scandalized. “She ain’t putting us out of anything besides a bed no one was usin’ anyways. For Chrissakes, woman.”

“I won’t be staying long,” Rane added, glancing at her apologetically.

“Well, on your own head be it,” Molly said coldly, casting a dark look at Rane. “Leave ‘em where ye find ‘em next time, Arthur, if ye wanted one badly enough they can be found in Rhodes after sunset.”

With this she turned on her heel and stalked away. Rane watched her go, feeling bewildered. Arthur, to her surprise, placed a hand on her shoulder gently, looking at her from beneath his brows.

“Don’t mind her, she’s always mad about somethin’,” he told her, and tipped her a wink. He might not have been threatening her life a few moments prior. “Must be that Irish in her. You ain’t so much trouble as all that.”

“Look, really, if I can just get my stuff back from those guys that grabbed me, I’ll be off,” Rane said, glancing at Dutch in earnest.

Dutch looked at her with some surprise. “You’re plannin’ on going _back_ there?” he shook his head, looking faintly amused. “Missus, you must not be from around these parts, them Pinkertons are a nasty bunch of bastards. They are liable to wring you out.”

“Well,” Arthur said, straightening and laughing, “lucky for her, ol’ John’s more’n happy to give her a hand.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed, and Rane could see the shrewd leader he must surely be beneath his pompous affect in that moment. “ _John_?”

“Yeah, me,” a voice said behind them. John Marston was striding over to meet them, tamping a beaten pack of smokes. “Long as you don’t object, Dutch.”

Dutch watched him as he squatted by the fire, lighting his cigarette in the low flames flickering there. “Well, Mr. Marston, it would seem that I do not have much say in the matter now, do I, If my boys are making decisions while I’m asleep in my bed.”

John looked up at him, pulling his hat off, and for a moment Rane caught a clear look at his face, the first time she’d done so without the cover of darkness. He was much younger than she’d taken him for the night before - not yet thirty, she suspected - and rather handsome, in a roughly hewn sort of way. Interestingly, beneath his tousled black hair there was a scar visible, from an injury that must have been disfiguring in its infancy, running down one unshaven cheek and through the corner of his mouth.

“‘Course you got a say,” he said. “I just didn’t think you’d mind, Dutch, it’s just north of Rhodes. Ain’t a far ride, I’ll be back by suppertime.”

“Them Pinkertons are hardcases,” Dutch said, stroking his well-maintained mustache and eyeing John introspectively. He hesitated, then added, “do you two know one another from someplace or something?”

“No,” said Rane and John simultaneously. They glanced at one another, and Arthur snickered.

“So what horse you got in this race, then, John Marston? No offense, Miss Roth.”

“Dutch, if you gotta ask then you’re as dumb as he is,” Arthur said, still chuckling.

John cast him a perilous look, the color rising in his face, and threw his cigarette into the fire with far more force than necessary. “I think I heard just about enough outta you to be gettin’ along with, Arthur Morgan -”

"Hey, don't get sore at _me_ , I ain't the one rushin' off to rob a bunch of Pinkertons on behalf of -"

"We ain't _robbing_ nobody, we're takin' back what's rightfully hers, is all -!"

“Alright, alright, you boys,” Dutch said, waving a hand impatiently. “Arthur, he’s grown, he can do as he pleases. John, you just be careful with them Pinkertons. Get what the lady wants and get outta there, or there’s liable to be trouble, and we want to keep our heads down.”

“‘Course.” John was still glaring at Arthur, who was smirking from beneath his hat. “You know me, Dutch, I like a quiet life.”

This made Dutch laugh, and Rane felt the tension ease at once. He made a little bow to Rane, winking at her.

“Well, if we do not meet again then I wish you the best of luck, my dear,” he told her grandly. “But if fortune favors us, we may yet, at that. John, you plannin’ on riding back-to? Carry the lady?”

John glanced at Rane. “Miss, you good on a horse?”

Rane laughed. “Raised on ‘em, yeah.”

"Dutch, You feel like sparing the Count?”

Dutch laughed again. “The Count’ll have nobody save me, God help him, but we got a couple spares over yonderways. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I gotta go try to salvage what remains of my lady’s peace of mind.”

“Yeah, her mind’s ‘bout as peaceful as a hogtied housecat,” Arthur muttered, standing up and finishing his coffee in a go. “I got some business to attend to up near Saint Denis. You need an extra gun, Marston? Might be a good dozen of ‘em up there.”

John shook his head where he was squatted next to the fire. “And listen to you carry on the whole way? _Hell_ no.”

“Alright, I was just askin’, keep your britches on.” Arthur’s voice was gruff, but Rane saw the affection in his eyes nevertheless. She didn’t doubt for a moment he’d make good on his promise if harm came to the man on her account. “You keep your head screwed on straight while you’re up there, then. Them boys are nothing to play around with.”

“Thank you,” Rane said abruptly, looking at Arthur as he began away. He turned to look at her over his shoulder. “For saving me. Thanks.”

Arthur tipped his hat at her. "Madam."

This done, he turned and loped off toward the other side of the camp.

“Funny guy,” she remarked, watching him go.

“Ah, he acts all surly but he ain’t so bad once you get to know him,” said John, following her gaze. “He’s been ridin’ with us for somethin’ like twenty years now, way Dutch tells it. Saved my skin more times than I care to admit, truth be told.”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers, then got to his feet with a grunt, stretching richly as he did so. As he raised his arms over his head, his shirt pulled free of his belt, exposing for a moment the flatness of his belly and a trail of hair down his navel as black as night, and Rane was surprised to feel some warmth rising in her cheeks. And she was as slow as ever, because John caught her eye almost right away. She averted her gaze at once, clearing her throat, and John, his own face coloring again, stuffed his shirt into his jeans hastily.

“Here,” he said, pulling the gun out of his right holster and handing it to her butt-first.

Rane shook her head at once, raising both hands palms-out. “No, no, no, I don’t know how to shoot.”

“How the hell you know how to ride a horse but not shoot a goddamned gun?” he asked her with genuine perplexity.

Rane got to her feet, brushing her jeans off. “I like my blade. And my wand. Never much needed anything else.”

“Your _wand_?” John looked uncertainly amused, as if not entirely sure whether Rane was making a joke. The resulting expression took him past comely and straight to handsome, and Rane had a moment to wonder whether there was a woman like Molly warming his bed, too. “You say _wand_ , miss?”

Rane smirked. “I guess maybe you guys don’t use those too much around here.”

“Not outside fairybooks, miss, we surely don't. But maybe I just ain’t seen enough of the world to know.”

“Well, if I manage to get it back, I’m happy to explain. And enough with that ‘miss’ shit, it’s _Rane_.”

John looked a little diffident. “‘Course it is, you mentioned. Anyways, sure you don’t want a side piece? Little security?”

"And keep it where? Stuck in my jeans? I'm liable to blow my dipshit asscheek off." Rane shook her head, eyeing the old revolver with distaste. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyways. Keep it, really.”

John looked at her for a moment, seemingly on the brink of arguing the point, but in the end he shrugged and holstered the gun with an unconscious, easy finesse that struck Rane as very Elf-like. “Suit yourself. Let’s hope we get outta there without a hole in our heads, then. Come on, follow me. Let’s get saddled up.”

Rane followed behind him, watching the loping gate he used as he strode toward the horses, one hand hooked in his belt and the other swinging willy-nilly at his side. _Walks like a cowpoke_ , she thought with a smirk. Of course, if this was really 1899, that’s probably exactly what he _was_. The idea made her feel a little dizzy and out of sorts.

“You take that black one,” John said from up ahead, jerking a head toward a tall, sturdy-looking tethered mare. “She’s all tacked up, at least. Think Bill mighta rode her in from Valentine but I don’t rightly remember.”

“What do you guys do, buy and sell them or something?” Rane asked, approaching the horse and tightening her saddle with a creak before climbing up, her hair falling around her face.

John, who was guiding his own horse away from the post, laughed a little grimly as he snapped the reins.

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.” He watched Rane for a moment as she steered the mare deftly toward him, holding the reins in one hand. “You weren’t kiddin’, you know your way around a horse, don’t ya?”

Rane gave him a side-eyed grin that John found positively intoxicating. It was the first time he’d seen her really smile, and it catapulted her into almost eye-popping beauty. No goddamned wonder the Pinkertons had taken a shine to her.

“Told you,” she said, reeling the mare around. “You know where we’re going?”

“Eh . . . just about,” said John, faintly amused to find his tongue seemed to have doubled in size abruptly. Damned if Arthur hadn’t pegged him, after all. “Ain’t too far, just a little ride up northways.”

Rane tipped him a little salute. “Lead the way, Mr. Marston.”

“Yes ma’am,” John agreed, smirking himself, and the two of them trotted down the path leading to camp, the thud of the horses’ hooves loud in the morning stillness.

  
  


LEMOYNE was beautiful country, in spite of the heat, and though John didn’t mention it much (Micah in particular would have given him hell for talking so), he rather loved it, and found he loved it even more being out in the thick of it with this woman. She was easy company. There was . . . a sort of aura about her that made him feel weirdly calm. He’d been sweet on ladies before, of course, but he’d never felt anything like this so quick. Hell, he’d not known her a full day yet. Of course, it was probably just plain old loneliness and boredom - Abigail had been out of the picture for almost six months now and he’d not taken many lovers since then aside from the odd saloon jaunt here and there. Laying with women wasn’t his business lately; the gang was his business, and he liked that just fine. Not that he was considering anything of the sort with this stranger, of course.

“Sure is a lot of wildlife,” Rane remarked at his side, jarring him from his long thoughts. He followed her gaze up ahead on the trail, where four deer were crossing into the thick wood beyond. The last one - a yearling stag, he thought - paused to look at them, tail flicking, both ears turned alertly forward. Its eyes were bright and quite fearless in the growing morning light.

“Look at that,” said Rane softly. “He ain’t even scared.”

“ _G’on, git_!” John shouted, and waved his hat over his head for a moment, making Rane’s horse toss her head and whicker. The stag jolted, then sprang into the woods lithely, crashing off through the undergrowth.

“Geeze, what’d you do that for?” Rane asked, looking at him in surprise.

“Well _clearly_ you ain’t never been on the wrong side of a rutting buck,” John replied, replacing his hat. “All it takes is a stiff breeze when they’re at that age. Dutch wouldn’t care too much for one of us getting run through before we even make it to the Pinkertons.”

“Dutch seems to care a lot about you,” said Rane. “Arthur, too.”

“Ah well, I dunno if ‘care’ is just the word I’d use, but I reckon we’re all used to each other after so long on the road together.” John glanced over at Rane, who was still looking after the deer. “‘Nuff about me, how’s ‘bout you tell me a little bit about you? I don’t know nothin’ about you ‘cept you managed to get on the bad side of the Pinkertons, and if I’m helpin’ a stranger out I think it’s only fitting.”

Rane pushed her hair behind her ear with her free hand, biting her lower lip. John marked it well before he could stop himself. He felt heat rise in his cheeks and cleared his throat, looking away.

“What d’you wanna know?” Rane asked.

“Well, for starters, how’d you end up in Lemoyne? You passin’ through? Lookin’ to put down some roots?”

“Honestly . . .” Rane sighed, passing a hand over her face. “I don’t know how I ended up here. I really don’t. I woke up in the woods, next to a trail, and just kinda . . . kinda sat there for a little while trying to figure out where I was. Then those guys showed up and threw a lasso around me.”

“Well, surely you remember _somethin_ ’.”

“Eh . . . vaguely. A little bit. Up until . . . well . . .”

She trailed off, looking profoundly disturbed. John decided not to press her. It was the same expression she'd worn last night when she had asked him what year it was.

“Alright, well then, how ‘bout this _wand and sword_ business,” he went on. “I ain’t never heard of nobody usin’ weapons like that, not nowadays.”

“Well, I’m a witch,” said Rane haltingly. “And an Elf.”

John gawked at her for a moment, looking utterly taken aback, then threw his head back and bellowed laughter. Rane had to smile a little herself, in spite of everything; his laugh was positively contagious.

“Oh, good lord,” said John when he’d managed to control himself, wiping at his streaming eyes. “A witch _and_ an Elf? Jesus wept! I never know y’all got so tall!”

“Not . . . _that_ kind of Elf,” Rane told him, still smirking. “I’m Sindarin. It’s . . . it’s a race of people, kind of. And yeah, a witch . . . I’m guessing you don’t have too many of those around here.”

“Well, I ain’t never heard of Sindarin before, but the folks where I come from don’t look too kindly on witches,” John told her, still chuckling. “Thinkin’ they’ll turn ‘em into lizards or some such. I don’t much abide by such things, myself. What, so you like to brew potions and such? Cast spells on men and make ‘em fall in love with ya, that sort of thing?”

“Well, I could do that, yeah,” said Rane unsmilingly, and John’s grin dropped at once. “But it’s not strictly speaking legal where I’m from. Not very ethical, either.”

John looked at her for a moment longer, unsure once again if she was kidding, but this time he didn’t think she was. Whatever she thought she could do, _she_ certainly did believe it.

“You think I’m crazy?” Rane asked him shrewdly, glancing over and catching his eye.

John shook his head, feeling a little inept. “Naw, not crazy. Well, maybe . . . maybe jes’ a little bit.”

He held his fingers a few inches apart, throwing her a grin as he did so. She rolled her eyes, smirking.

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first one to say so,” she remarked, laughing.

They rode on in silence for a few minutes, the horses’ hooves clopping beneath them. John took a deep breath and released it, tipping his hat back and looking around him. It was a fine day. The birds were loud and the sun was shining. He felt pretty good, for the first time in a while.

“So, Molly is Dutch’s . . . what, girlfriend?”

“You might could say that, yeah, though I imagine she thinks of herself that way more so than him,” John replied, amused by this turn. “He takes another’n every few years. Hard to nail down, Dutch.”

“She seemed a little -”

“Uppity?” John gave Rane a grim smile. He was craned to one side, rifling through the saddlebag on his right, his denim vest pulling tight across his lean waist. “Well, that’s ‘cuz she is, and it ain’t just with you. She sailed over from Ireland, had rich parents and all that. Thinks she’s too good for us, I think. Whew, I tell you what, this is the most talkin’ I done in weeks, I gotta wet my whistle.”

He pulled out a flask and took a long draught on it, then offered it to Rane. She surprised him by taking it with a word of thanks and throwing some back before handing it over again.

“What’s got you so interested in Dutch, anyways?” John asked, stowing the flask again.

“Nothing, just . . . I mean, you guys are some kind of gang, right?”

John nodded. “That we are. Bunch of mangy ne’er-do-wells if I ever saw one.”

“Well, where I’m from, it would strike me as a little weird for someone in a gang to carry on a relationship,” Rane replied slowly. “Don’t shit where you eat and all that.”

John snorted, stowing that one away for future use. This girl was full of them.

“No offense, of course,” Rane added.

“Ah, nah, none taken.” John waved this off, still chuckling. “Well, I expect things are a little different here than where you’re from, then.”

“What about you? You got a lady?” Rane asked.

John looked at her in surprise. She wasn’t looking at him, but he thought there was something a little tense about the set of her body. He cleared his throat, resettling his grip on the reins.

“A lady? Me? Naw. Not for some time now.” John patted his horse affectionately. “Just me and Old Boy these days.”

“Any wee little Johns running around?”

"Huh?"

"Kids, I mean."

"Oh." John straightened, his smile fading. “Well, you know, sometimes I ain’t too sure, but I think so.”

“You _think_ so? How do you -?”

“Well, see, my . . . I dunno what you’d call her . . . my old girl. Abigail. I used to call her my wife, but she wasn’t, not proper-like. Anyway, she was a call girl when we met, and most of the gang had their way with her. Wasn’t til her and me got together that Jack turned up.” He hesitated. “Truthfully it tore me up inside, a little. I ran off on my own for about a year when he was little. Didn’t know whether I could ever get over not knowin’, and not havin’ a pa of my own I ever really knew . . . well, you know.”

Rane looked over at him, aghast. He wasn’t looking at her - his eyes were dead set ahead, the morning light streaming through the branches overhead dappling his cheeks - but his jaw was clenched and his brows were knitted. She would not have expected this sudden deluge of very personal truth from what amounted to a stranger, especially not in response to what was meant to be a very casual question.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That was a jackass thing for me to ask.”

“Nah, don’t be. Truth be told, I ain’t had much chance to talk to anybody about it in God only knows how long. I kinda like it.” John heaved a sigh. “Anyway, that was goin' on six months ago, and she’s been gone now with Jack since. Don’t reckon I’ll ever see either one of ‘em again, so I guess it don’t much matter now.”

Rane fell silent, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole. John was fumbling with his saddlebag again, his face slightly red, and a moment later he pulled out his battered pack of smokes, from which he mouthed a cigarette. He tipped the pack at Rane, his eyebrows raised, and she shrugged and nodded, and then watched with interest as he pulled a match from the pocket of his vest and struck it alight on the horn of his saddle with the same unconscious grace he’d displayed holstering his piece. He stretched his arm out toward her, the smoke held between his first two fingers, and Rane took it, offering him a small smile.

“Well?” John sounded uncomfortable. “You? Kids? Family?” He fumbled with his smoke, nearly dropping it, then cleared his throat. “Husband? Anything like ‘at?”

Rane drew deep on the cigarette and blew it out in a plume before her, watching as it caught the fat, golden rays of early sun streaming through the trees above them. It was rich, far richer than any tobacco she’d ever encountered, and she felt a swell of not entirely unpleasant lightheadedness wash over her. A couple of these bad boys back home would put Marlboro right off the map.

“A daughter,” she said softly. “And no husband.”

“Really? Never? Pretty thing like you?” John titled his hat back, looking at her with some surprise.

“I had . . . I had someone. But he died.”

And for the first time since she’d been taken by the Pinkertons, Sirius Black’s face swam into Rane’s mind, as clear as if she’d seen him only minutes ago. She felt a cramp of guilt pass through her, and also a sense of definite disassociation. She’d thought of him damn near every day since he’d been killed . . . it wasn’t like her to just forget about him. Worse, here she was, halfway to flirting with some cowboy type she’d met in this . . . this whatever-it-was place . . . and where was her daughter, where was Idril? Why couldn’t she _remember_?

“Aw, damn. I’m sorry as hell to hear that.” And John looked it, for his part. Rane saw his hand begin to reach toward her, perhaps to touch her shoulder consolingly, but he seemed to lose face and dropped it back to his lap. “I surely do hate that. Recent?”

Rane shook her head, looking over at him and steeling herself a little. In any case, it wasn’t going to do her any favors getting all sloppy about it right now. Wand and sword, then go from there. That was the first step. “It was years ago, almost . . . God, I dunno . . . time feels all fucky. Last time I knew where I was - _when_ I was - it was going on four years.”

John watched her for a moment, his hips swaying with the motion of his horse, his cigarette hanging from his lower lip. “Wish I knew what you meant by _that_.”

“So do I,” said Rane honestly, and drew deep on her smoke again, blowing out her nose.

John sighed, then flicked the cigarette away. Rane did the same, watching it fly end over end and vanish in the overgrowth.

“I hope you don’t begrudge me, drudging that up for ya,” John said at length. He’d pulled his flask of whiskey out again and was teasing the lid open with his thumb.

Rane shrugged, shaking her head. “Nah. Does kinda surprise me, though, that you’re not holed up with a lady up there.”

“Oh it does, does it?” John sounded amused. “Why might that be?”

“Best looking one I saw up there, for starters.”

John, halfway through taking another draught off his flask, burst into a coughing fit, spraying whiskey all over the back of Old Boy’s head. Rane looked over at him, concerned. His face was bright red and he was thumping his chest, shaking his head, the whiskey flask still held aloft in his free hand.

“You okay over there? Hairball or something?”

“Fine!” John spluttered, spinning the cap of his flask shut and throwing it back into the saddlebag. “Aside from chokin’ to death, of course.”

He cleared his throat, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, and straightened, still red-faced.

“Well that’s mighty kind of you to say,” he said at length, still sounding slightly choked. He glanced at her, still hot around the collar. “You ain’t so bad yourself, if I might say so.”

She met his eyes, and they looked at one another for a moment in not-quite-comfortable silence, the birds singing overhead and this awkward exchange of compliments lingering between them. Old Boy was the first to break it; he tossed his head, whinnying, ears pinned back. John laughed, attempting to arm off some of the whiskey on his mane.

“Guess Old Boy don’t much care for spirits this early in the day,” he said, sounding amused. He glanced ahead, peering out from beneath his hat, and yanked on the reins. “Just as well, think we’re damn near there.”

Rane pulled her own horse to a stop, following his gaze. After a moment she saw what he’d seen; a smoke stack rising above the canopy up ahead.

“You think that’s them?”

“Not a hundred percent, no, but close enough. Alright, now here’s what we’re gonna do,” said John, leaning toward Rane. There was no more of his artlessness now that they were on the cusp of the thing - he was all business and zero nonsense - and Rane liked him at once for it. A fighter he most clearly was. “Dutch said it best, them Pinkertons are a bunch of hardcases and they’ll shoot you soon as look at you."

"What _are_ they, though, besides hardcases? Outlaws or something?"

John shook his head quickly. "They're hired bounty hunters for the law. Most of 'em I imagine _were_ outlaws, sure, before they went all _bona fide_." He spat this word out with unconcealed disdain. "Seein’ as how it’s not quite midday yet, we’re gonna creep up on ‘em and see what we can see. If you spot your things lyin’ unmolested, we’re gonna grab ‘em and run for it. I won’t fight these boys ‘less I have no other choice. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna try bein’ civil first. Walk up on ‘em, announce myself, see if they wont’ hand over what I ask. Now if they ain’t agreeable, which they likely won’t be, they’re gonna open fire, and if that happens, you find cover and wait for me to take ‘em out.”

“Jesus, John,” said Rane, unnerved.

“Well, I’m only sayin’ _in case_ ,” John reiterated, but Rane rather thought he’d already made up his mind even then that there was going to be trouble. “Like as not they’re all still asleep and won’t be none the wiser, but fortune favors the prepared, like Dutch always says. Now I ain't gonna get my hopes up seeing as how you can't fire a gun by your own telling, but have you ever been in a firefight?”

Rane laughed. “Not one like this,” she admitted, “but yeah, I have. I think I’ll be okay.”

“Alright. Just remember to take cover if they start gunnin’ for you. I dunno that they’ll recognize you, but if they do I’ll bet they’ll be pissed.”

Rane looked at him for a moment longer, her eyes flicking between his. “Thank you for doing this,” she said softly.

John waved this off. “Don’t thank me yet. Come on, enough talk, let’s put the horses off the path a bit.”

He wheeled Old Boy around and trotted him into the brush. Rane followed, feeling a little unnerved.


	3. Pinkertons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Rane raid the Pinkerton camp

_Let your anger rise_   
_And we'll fly_   
_And we'll fall_   
_And we'll burn_   
_No one will recall_   
_No one will recall._

\- **Muse**

_________

They’d come to the right place. Once the horses were stashed, John and Rane crept through the thick undergrowth, slapping at mosquitoes, until they were nearly upon the camp. It was fairly small, at least compared to Dutch’s, but there were plenty of them to contend with, and none of them were sleeping, as far as Rane could tell. She did a quick headcount, her mouth moving silently.

“I put them at about twelve,” she whispered to John. He was squatting on his hunkers at her side, peering around the trunk of a gnarled, ancient live oak draped with Spanish moss. “You see any more?”

“Nah, sounds about right. Look familiar, Rane? You think this is it?”

“I dunno, it was dark,” Rane murmured. She paused, then pointed at one of the men near the center of the camp, sitting on the rim of a wagon and peeling an apple with a pocketknife. “Never mind, this is it. That’s the guy that grabbed me.”

“Which one?”

“Pornstache.”

“Lady, if you don’t start speaking English -”

Rane rolled her eyes and leaning towards him pointed, closing in on his line of sight. “ _That_ one. Middle of camp. With the stupid blue hat. See him?”

John followed her finger, nodding. “Yeah, I see him.” He pulled out one of his revolvers, cocked it, and held it at his side, his knuckles white against its handle. “Now we just gotta see whether we can spot your stuff.”

Rane squinted, taking her time.

“There.” She pointed again, this time to the left of the camp. “On that crate.”

John, who had been digging a pair of binoculars out of his satchel, looked at her, eyebrows high.

“Ain’t no way you can see that far,” he said skeptically.

“Agree to disagree."

“Hush a minute.” John was squinting toward where she was pointing. “I don’t see nothin’.”

"I've been looking at that scabbard every day since I was twelve. I promise you, that's it."

“I dunno how you can see somethin’ half a wheel away from us, _Missus Roth_ -”

“Trust me, _Mister Marston._ ” She pointed again. “Right there.”

“Bullshit.” John was lifting the binocs nonetheless, snorting dubiously, craning his head.

"If I had cash in my pocket I'd throw it down on this one, sweetheart."

John said nothing. A moment passed as he looked, mouth slightly open, leaning forward. Rane could hear the minute turn of the wheel clicking beneath his finger.

“Well, I’ll be double damned,” he murmured, pulling them away. He looked at her with naked disbelief and laughed, low. “You got a peeled eye, ma’am, I’ll hand ya that.”

“Runs in the family.”

“If you say so.” John rose, bent over at the middle, and looked down at her, hands on his knees. “I’m gonna go see if I can snag ‘em. You wait here ‘til I -”

“Whoa, hang on -”

“ _Wait here_ ,” John repeated firmly, casting her an imperious look. “I’m riskin’ my neck for you, least you can do is mind me, alright?”

Rane fell back, frowning.

“And quit lookin’ all sulky about it,” he added, spinning the cylinder of his gun and peering into the chambers. “Don’t suit ya.”

“Why won’t you just let me -?”

“Because, miss, you refused my piece, which makes you the only fool without a weapon here,” John told her firmly, “and that means you’re a sittin’ duck if bullets fly, and myself, I’d rather not see you gunned down just yet, I was just startin’ to like you.”

Rane nodded, not without a trace of defiance. “Fine. I’ll just sit here and watch you get shot.”

“Remember what I said,” said John, leaning toward her. “If there’s apt to be shootin’, find cover and wait for me to take ‘em out. Don’t try nothin’ stupid. And stay outta sight.”

With this he pulled his hat firmly down over his ears, rose to his feet and began to stride toward the camp.

  
  


RANE watched him from her spot behind the oak, grasping it so hard her fingernails were digging into the bark. He got about twenty yards out before someone noticed him - the lookout, Rane thought. He held a shotgun in both hands.

“Who the hell’re you?” he bellowed.

“Me, I ain’t nobody,” John responded, raising both hands up palms out. In that moment Rane could have happily killed him herself; she had not realized, until this moment, the true risk he was taking approaching these men on his own. “Just got a little friendly request.”

"I'll be fucked sideways!" the man cried abruptly, squinting at him. "That's John Marston, as I live and breathe! Hey you boys, we got one of Dutch's boys over here!"

"Look at the bastard, walkin' into the snake den!" someone else shouted.

There was a snicker amongst the men, and Rane noticed with alarm that nearly all of them had begun to focus their attention on John now. He was outnumbered twelve to one.

“Now look, I ain’t here on account of Dutch,” John said, and Rane had a moment to admire his courage. He was facing a dozen armed men and showed not a single iota of fear. “I’m here on account one of my friends was taken by y’all last night and would like to have her effects back, that’s it. She ain't affiliated with Dutch and I don’t mean no harm by it.”

“We-he-hell,” one of the men replied, striding forward. He had a pistol aimed at John and in the dim firelight, his grin was vulpine. “I seem to indeed recall that fine little ol’ piece of ass we picked up by the roadside. Little long-legged brunette with big ol' eyes, that who you referrin’ too, mister?”

“The very same,” John replied, but his voice was low now. There was a pause. “And it’d benefit you not to talk about her that way, friend.”

The man with the shotgun regarded John for a moment, his grin broadening. Nearby, his cohorts were gathering, drawing their weapons.

“Well, I got bad tidings for ya, then,” he said. “We ain’t got no stake in whores ‘round here. What we got stake in is thinning Van Der Linde’s flock.”

“Now, listen here,” said John, backing up. One hand was lifted, but Rane could see the other slowly dropping toward his gun. “I don’t mean for no trouble -”

“Well, you found it, boy,” a voice cried, and the first gunshot rang out then, so loud that Rane clapped both her hands over her ears, shocked. John dove out of the way, his revolver already flying.

“Fuck,” Rane muttered, and broke cover, running doubled over to where he was, diving into cover at his side. The whine of bullets was loud around them. She could see branches obliterated in her peripheral, sending shards of wood flying.

“Are you okay?” Rane gasped.

“You don't listen so good, do ya?” John cast her a dire look. "I told ya to _stay back_ , dammit -!"

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” Rane was staring around the trunk of the tree she was crouched behind. “I’m going for my sword."

“Like hell you are!”

“You got a better idea!?” Rane said loudly, glaring at him. Around them, the screams of bullets continued.

“Yeah, I sure might! How about the one we said we’d stick to -?!”

“Well, either you let me go get my sword, or we’re gonna die,” Rane snapped at him. "Pick one."

"And just how in the hell do you figure you're gonna save our asses even if you _do_ lay hands on it? Which you _won't_ , by the way!" John asked her bluntly, eyeing her. "You ain't no brawler, girl! What are ya, a hundred-forty soakin' wet? Hell, you can't even use a goddamn _gun_ , let alone -!"

"You're lucky I don't have it right now, buckaroo," Rane said sharply, glaring at him, "I've put it through men for less than a couple ignorant of words -"

"Oh, hell. You're dreamin'." John leaned out of cover to shoot a few rounds toward their attackers. “Woman, you’re a few bricks shy of a building if you think -”

“Shut up and let me get us out of this.” And when John hesitated: “Trust me. Cover me.”

“It’s too goddamned far, we gotta make some ground first -”

"Okay, look. I'm going." Rane was getting up. She spread her arms at him invitingly. "You wanna stop me, then shoot me."

“Well, hell, go _on_ , then!” John shouted roughly, waving one hand toward her. “If you wanna die, go _on_ , you damn fool! Ain't no skin off my ass!”

She was gone in a whirl of dark hair, unfazed by his words. John glared after her, feeling a sinking in his stomach.

“God damn, I shoulda made you take this gun!” he shouted after her, flipping open the revolver and reloading hastily.

“It’s that girl from t’other night!” one of the men bellowed, and the fire shifted a little away from John. He took the opportunity to dive out from behind the tree, running toward where Rane had gone. But he didn’t have her preternatural speed, and before he knew quite what was happening a bullet had struck him squarely in the hollow of his shoulder, knocking the gun from his hand and sending him to the ground. He gasped, clutching at his chest, shocked by the fiery hot pain that erupted in his midsection. He fumbled around in the dirt for his revolver, hearing thudding footsteps nearing him. All was chaos - the shouting had reached a crescendo, and the gunfire was deafening, though he could tell by the whistling of bullets that it wasn’t all directed at him, not anymore. He felt a sharp and quite uncharacteristic flare of fear for her. The smell of gunsmoke was acrid and sharp in the air, and the flapping of frightened birds above them in the canopy had become almost as loud as the cries of the cicadas.

“I got ‘im!” a voice cried, very near to him. John looked up from where he lay in the dirt, one hand still clutching at his chest, feeling the warmth of fresh blood flowing from his shirt. A face leered above him, and a double-barreled shotgun was pointing toward his head.

“Aw, hell,” he muttered. _Killed over a goddamned girl_ , he thought, not without regret. _What a hell of a thing. Sorry, Dutch._

“I got ‘im over h -!” the man shouted, but then several things happened at once.

There was a flash of silver, like the reflection of a wagon wheel in the moonlight, and suddenly the man who’d been leering above John stilled. His hands dropped to his sides, limp and swinging, and then his head fell from his shoulders, as neat as you please. It hit the dirt with a thud, and then his body crumpled beside it. The shotgun hit the ground, falling from his loosening fingers as he went down. The weapon discharged almost at once, leaping against the dusty earth, loud enough to make John’s ears ring. A spray of buckshot flew into a nearby tree trunk, scattering bark to the four points of the compass.

For a moment John could not move, not due to his injury but to simple, complete surprise. He was on all fours, one elbow stuck into the dirt, hoisting his weight; the other hand was clutching his bleeding shoulder. He gaped at the decapitated man before him, his mouth agape, dark hair hanging in his face, entirely unable to understand what had happened, his ears still ringing from the gunshot. The man’s fingertips were still twitching in the dirt. His hat lay in the grass nearby, blood-smattered.

“What in the hell,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “What in the _hell_.”

After a moment he shook his head, looking around for Rane. The sounds of gunfire and bellowing had not ceased, and he caught sight of her almost at once, and felt his mouth drop open. He’d been shot perhaps ten seconds ago, but she’d managed to skewer better than half the camp in that time. They were laying hither and yon, some clearly dead, some still struggling feebly, all of them covered in blood. She’d found her sword - after all her bluster, she’d seen where it had been laid up after all, it seemed - and in one hand held it at the ready, her eyes flashing, its silvery blade red with blood. Presently, as he looked, a Pinkerton tried to move up on her from behind, but she whirled around with hideous speed and in one swift motion ran the blade through the middle of him, ripping it out mercilessly in a spray of blood that coated her white blouse with its fine droplets. Corpses littered around her.

And now the Pinkertons were getting the idea. The three or four that remained were making a run for it, stumbling off into the underbrush, one of them weeping loudly and covering his ears with both hands. Even their horses were fleeing, their eyes rolling with terror, ears flat against their skulls, crashing off into the undergrowth.

Rane turned toward the Pinkertons’ retreating forms, her eyes wild.

“What, you guys don’t want to hang out anymore?” she was shouting, her voice hearty, acidic and utterly cold. “Come back! What’s wrong?”

Now in her right hand she held a long, curved black stick, pinned almost delicately between the first two fingers, the way a schmoozy high-society lady might grasp a cigarette holder. _That’s her wand,_ he thought with a combination of grim amusement and terror. _She’s gonna try to use that thing on them. She's as crazy as a -_

“CONFRINGO!” she shouted, and to John’s utter shock, a wave of bright red-orange flame burst from the tip of the stick. The heat from it was enormous; it rushed backward towards John, throwing the sweaty tendrils of his hair backwards even a far as he was from her, rippling the grass around him. The flames flying toward the few remaining Pinkertons overtook them, and he watched in horror as they continued to flee, shedding their burning clothes as they went, screaming in newer, higher pitches of agony.

“WHERE ARE YOU GUYS GOING?” Rane was screaming, the cords standing out in her neck, her eyes bright and furious. There was a still a fierce, tight grin on her face. The Pinkertons continued to run from her, still aflame, still shrieking. "WHAT'S WRONG? WAS IT SOMETHING I SAID?"

"Jesus Christ," John breathed, watching all this, his eyes wide. "Jesus fucking Christ."

Rane remained where she was for a moment, breathing heavily, watching the diminishing forms of the Pinkertons. Then, with practiced ease, she slipped the sword’s blade through a handful of her blouse and then placed it with a clang into its holster. When had she put it on? How the hell was she so fast?

“John?” she called, looking around. The early afternoon sun dappled her forehead, making her even more lovely. Her voice had dropped back to its usual, calm cadence, lovely and concerned, at sharp odds with the blood on her shirt. “Where are you?”

For a moment, where he was crouched in the long grass, John very seriously considered not replying, just turning tail when she looked the other direction and high-tailing it if he could. Whatever he had just watched, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out anymore. And it would have ended right there, putting a stop to everything that followed, had it not been for one thing; he was injured, badly. He wouldn't get far from her even if he did try to run. If he wanted to live, he was going to have to trust her a little bit further, armed or no.

“Here,” he said, and raised a hand up as far as he could in the grass. Rane turned toward it at once, making her way to him.

“Christ,” she said, falling to her knees before him. He looked up at her warily, trying to keep his trepidation under wraps. “You’re shot, man, how -?”

“Well, if you got questions for me, I got twice as many for you,” said John roughly, looking up at her unsmilingly.

Rane looked at him for a moment, a little chastened, then pulled out her wand, aiming at him. John jerked back at once, looking at it with unfiltered fear.

“Get that god damn thing away from m- !”

“Hey, listen, stop,” Rane said softly, placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder as he tried to squirm away from her. “ _Stop_ , John. Give me a chance to explain.”

He did, staring up at her, his eyes wide. What choice, after all?

“Look, I won’t hurt you with it,” said Rane quietly. She looked ashamed. “It’s not just a weapon, it’s a _tool_. You understand?”

“I understand I ain’t never seen a creature of earth do the like,” John muttered, a little coarsely.

“Well, let me tell it to you another way, then - either you’re gonna let me help you or you’re gonna bleed out,” said Rane grimly. She gestured to John’s wound, which was bleeding freely. “Don’t tell me you don’t know it, as many dead men as I’m sure you’ve seen. I’ve seen them, too. And I can fix it. So let me.”

John looked up at her, breathing quickly, his eyes bloodshot and wide, his hat fallen back behind his head in the dirt. Rane, knelt over him, returned his gaze, her brows contracted, her dark hair falling around her face.

“Well, what the hell,” he said at last, and sighed. "I'm done for either way, I guess."

“This might feel weird,” Rane said.

“Weirder than dying?” John’s voice was light, but his eyes were frightened.

“A little bit, yeah, but you’ll be fine.”

Rane placed her wand on the hollow of his injured shoulder (John cringed), and then spoke in a low, almost singsong voice, her eyes falling shut.

“ _Vulnera sanentur_.”

John felt a strange, tickling sensation, followed by an itchiness almost too powerful to overcome. One hand reached up to satisfy it, but Rane caught it in her own, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she said softly.

"Itches like hell -"

“I know, but it’s healing. Just for a second, it'll pass.”

He bucked, but she was strong. John groaned, writhing, as the itch reached a crescendo - but then suddenly it was gone. Replaced with . . . 

John sat up, touching his shoulder tentatively. There was no pain. He looked at Rane, shocked.

“It’s fine, you’re okay,” said Rane gently. She was stowing her wand in her jeans pocket. “Might have to get rid of that shirt, though.”

John looked at her for another moment, his mouth downturned. A long moment passed between them in silence, broken only by the cicadas.

“Tell me I ain’t crazy,” John said at last, soft, still sitting half-crouched before Rane.

Rane shook her head, smiling a little. “You’re not. I mean,” she amended fairly, shrugging, "you _might_ be, for all I know. But you're not hallucinating this or anything."

“Well then how’d you shoot that fire? And how’d you help me?”

Rane shook her head again. “That’s a long story. But I’m happy to tell you whatever you want to know.” She hesitated. “It’s not a ten minute conversation.”

John looked at Rane a long time.

“Well then I reckon we best make camp,” he said at length. “Because I dunno that I can walk on without knowin’ what just transpired. If it’s all the same to you.”

Rane nodded. “Probably a good idea, yeah.”

John rose to his feet. He was prepared for pain, or lightheadedness - _anything_ , really - but he felt fine. Hell, he felt _great_. A goddamned miracle, really.

“Well, then, help me make a fire,” he said softly. “And get your story ready, woman. Because I got questions.”


	4. The Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to understand what he saw at the Pinkertons' camp, but a bottle of whiskey makes an appearance and the night falls with them laughing and drunk.

_Why doesn't anyone believe_   
_In loneliness_   
_Stand up and everyone will see_   
_Your holiness._

\- **Soundgarden**

_______________

NIGHTFALL found them drunk.

Rane was leaning over her knees, belly-laughing, and John was clutching his injured shoulder in hysterics.

“So you’re tellin’ me -” John broke into laughter, shaking his head, “that y’all sit in a classroom . . . hang on, _hang_ on . . . and the goddamned teacher is a _ghost_?”

“I swear to God, it’s the most boring shit,” she wheezed, laughing. “And I haven’t even told you the worst part -”

“Oh, no -”

“He wasn’t _always_ a ghost -”

“Well, no shit he wasn’t always a ghost, where the hell d’you think ghosts come from?”

“Shut up, John Marston! He wasn’t _always_ a ghost, he just died one night, and in the morning he just got up and went back to work! Just . . . got up, said fuck it and went back to it! You wanna talk to me about job security? This motherfucker had tenure in the fucking _afterlife_ , for crying out loud -”

That sent John off again, listing to one side, clutching the nearly empty whiskey bottle in one hand and roaring.

“Ah, Christ, I ain’t laughed that hard in I dunno how long,” he said once he’d managed to control himself, wiping at his eyes. There was a definite slur in his voice now, and Rane was sure that there was one in hers too. They’d spent the entire day drinking and talking. Well . . . more John asking questions and Rane answering them, truthfully. She’d told him about the Elves, about the Order of the Phoenix, even the Ministry of Magic, but he had been downright fascinated by the idea of Hogwarts and had asked after everything from the subjects to the professors. By the time Professor Binns had cropped up, both of them were good and sloshed, and John had become as amiable as if they’d known one another for ages.

“Me neither,” said Rane honestly, leaning back against the boulder behind her. When had she laughed this much? Not since Sirius was alive, no doubt. He’d made her laugh like that. "Jesus Christ, I didn't realize how much time I'd spent by myself until just now . . ."

"Did ya?" John shook his head, still grinning. "Me too. Just work and more work, after Abigail left."

"You and Arthur don't hang out?"

John scoffed. "Shit. Arthur thinks I'm about the dumbest son of a bitch in the world. 'Course not."

"Well, he told me he'd lay me out if I got you hurt," Rane remarked, casting her bloodshot gaze on John's, eyebrows high. "And lemme tell you something, I believe he meant it. That guy is scary as hell. So don't you get me in trouble and tell him you got shot. I don't want to get murdered just yet."

John put a finger to his lips, casting her a conspiratorial smile. Rane snorted. The fire crackled merrily between them, casting its orange light across the little clearing they’d chosen. Old Boy and Rane’s mare were hitched nearby, tails flicking idly, grazing at their leisure. The trees around them were tall, hung with Spanish moss, and the sound of crickets was growing in the brush around them. The sky was awash in pink and blue, shot through with orange clouds, and the first stars were glinting at the zenith. John sat with one leg stretched out before him, dusty boots crossed, grasping the nearly empty whiskey bottle in one hand, his head leaned back and his hat in the dirt at his side. He’d undone the first few clasps at the top of his denim vest, baring a few inches of chest and curls of black hair (and had Rane’s eyes returned there a few times despite her best efforts? Of course they had). In the firelight (and with a belly full of whiskey, like as not), Rane couldn’t deny any longer how handsome he really was. Roughly hewn, unshaven, scar or not. 

“So what was it?” Rane asked him.

“What was what?” John was still smirking.

Rane touched her face in roughly the same place where John’s scars were. He laughed, shaking his head.

“Ah, I was wonderin’ when you were gonna ask me that.” He pushed his hair behind one ear, exposing the side of his face to Rane, and she examined it curiously in the sharp firelight. It was far deeper and longer than she’d first thought, grazing over the bridge of his nose and delving far down his cheek. “Wolves. Got cornered by a couple-few of ‘em in the mountains just a couple months ago, matter of fact.”

"Bullshit. You nicked it shaving or something."

"I'm tellin' you, it was wolves. A whole pack of 'em. The hell kind of way you think I'm shaving my face, that I could do something like that?" John added, laughing. "Christ, you think I'm using a damn scimitar or something?"

“ _Wolves_.” Rane looked impressed. John amused himself by preening a little under that gaze. Regular old peacock. “How the fuck - so, did you kill them? What happened?”

“Arthur happened, as he usually does,” John replied. “Told ya, he’s all the time savin’ my neck. Ol’ Scarface, that’s what they call me now. Guess it done spoiled all my pretty.”

“Why does the fucking _smoke_ keep following me?” Rane snapped abruptly, waving her hand before her face. “The wind hasn’t even changed!”

“Well, you know what they say, smoke follows beauty.”

Rane snorted, still waving a hand before her, but she felt her cheeks heat up a little. “Doesn’t sound very scientific.”

“Come here,” John beckoned her toward him. Behind him, the two horses were stamping and grazing mildly. “It won’t chase ya if you’re near old long tall and ugly over here.”

Rane rose unsteadily, staggering a little, and stepping over to him sat down roughly at his side, curling her legs beneath her. John handed her the bottle of whiskey and she accepted it, taking another slug before handing it back, hissing at its bitterness.

“That is some _real_ nasty shit.”

“Well, I guess I offended the fancy lady’s delicate fuckin’ sensibilities, then -”

Rane swatted at his shoulder. He cringed from her, grinning.

"I'm sorry that my panache and sophistication intimidates you."

"I'm gonna panache and sophistication my foot right up your ass, you keep it up."

A moment of silence passed. Rane leaned back, folding her arms and staring into the sky.

“You are, though,” said John, looking down at her.

Rane glanced up at him, the breeze teasing the ends of her long hair, eyes bright and a little bloodshot. “I am - _hic_ \- what?”

“Beautiful.”

There was a moment of silence between them. The smell of him was very close and pleasant, horse and tobacco and whiskey and sweat, and his eyes were on hers, grayish brown and rather lovely. Rane turned her gaze away, feeling ungainly, grasping at the strands of grass near her boots. John, looking disappointed, watched her for a moment and then cleared his throat gruffly, dug into his vest pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. He shook out a pair of them, lit them carefully in the crackling bonfire, then handed one to Rane, who took it. The stars overhead were beginning to appear above the fiery horizon.

“What happened to your man?” he asked after a moment, around his cigarette.

Rane looked up, her smile fading, her expression becoming almost hostile.

“Why?”

“Easy.” John lifted his hands palm-out, the smoke dangling from his lower lip, casting her a sidelong look. “Was just askin’.”

Rane looked at John a moment longer, her fingers still twiddling with the grass near her boots. It was weird, talking about Sirius, not least of all because of the strange place she’d found herself in and this strange man she’d gotten tangled up with.

“Murdered.” Rane sighed. Had she ever had to tell anyone what happened to him? She didn’t think so. Everyone had always just known. “He was a part of the Order, and there was a fight, and someone . . . someone killed him.”

“Christ. I’m sorry as hell to hear that. What was his name?”

“Sirius,” said Rane, low.

“Do they have a sorta . . . I dunno . . . a jail for magical folk?” John asked. “Did the law get the one done him in, at least?”

“There’s a wizarding prison, yeah,” said Rane, voice low. “And no, they didn’t get her. I did.”

“ _You_ did?” John looked at her in mild surprise.

Rane nodded, chewing her mouth. "Yep. Took me almost two years, but I found her."

John was watching her, bewildered by this turn. The woman sitting next to him was slightly built, almost scrawny, and even though he had seen her lay low a whole camp full of Pinkertons just a couple of hours ago, the idea of this skinny, dark-haired, ridiculously lovely little girl, who might have tipped the scales at a hundred and forty and stood five foot nine in her trotting harness, exacting revenge on _anybody_ was still almost ridiculous. She looked like the sort of woman who averted her eyes when a man lifted his voice nearby, not the kind who could part a head with its body with her pulse beating at seventy-five or eighty at the back end. He supposed he'd have to do away with that sort of thinking if she stuck around. She was a damn predator, as deadly as any man back at camp. She'd just come in pretty packaging, was all.

“How?”

Rane chewed her lip for a moment, staring into the fire, then said, "I cut her throat and waited. So that when she went to hell, my face was the last thing she saw," she added, her voice dropping even further. "So she knew who sent her."

“Jesus, woman,” he said mildly.

Rane looked up at him a trifle reticently. “You'd have done the same. She was a piece of work. What about _your_ woman?”

“Abigail?” John scoffed. “I don’t think she was ever any woman of mine. She ran off with our kid. Or _some_ man’s kid. You got your girl still?”

“Boy, you sure are full of questions tonight,” said Rane, looking at him sidelong and smirking. The curve of her mouth in the low firelight was sweet and heady, and John liked it when she met his eyes. They were strange, hazel shot through with gold, like a riverbed. "Why do you want to know about my little girl?"

“Hey now, you _agreed_.” He leveled his cigarette-laden fingers at her, eyebrows high, looking disdainful. “That was my one and only condition, as you’ll recall, miss. No backpedalin’.”

“Yeah, yeah. She’s with my - _hic_ \- people.” Rane drew back on the cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke that curled upwards into the cooling air. “Well, sort of. Her godfather now, like as not. And don’t call me miss, I’ve got a name.”

“Yeah, you mentioned. Godfather, huh?"

Rane nodded, and a real, genuine smile touched her mouth. "Yep. The coolest kid you ever hoped to meet."

"He's all that, huh?"

Rane nodded, still smiling, but said no more. John drew a last drag off his smoke then flicked it into the bonfire, leaning back and crossing his arms before his thin chest. He was peering up into the sky.

“You ever get lonely? Ever miss him? Your man, Sirius?”

Rane shifted, resettling herself and following his gaze toward the stars. “‘Course I do. I loved him. I guess I’ll always miss him.”

John sighed, looking suddenly sad. “I dunno if I know I have ever felt that way,” he murmured. “Abigail, hell . . . I cared for her, but I spent so goddamned long bein’ pissed off at her, and wonderin’ about Jack. And there ain’t been nobody else before or since, not really.”

“I know what you mean,” Rane said honestly. She leaned over John, snatched the bottle of whiskey and sloshed back the last swallow. She sighed, tossing the empty bottle into the dirt with a clink. “Being alone, it gets into your bones after a while. Starts becoming who you are, not just what you're doing.”

A rather heavy silence passed between them. John was looking at Rane, his brow knitted. After a moment he lifted his arm toward her.

“Come here,” he said, beckoning.

Rane glanced over at him. He beckoned again.

“Come on. I ain’t gonna bite ya.” He sighed. “I may be drunk and I may be a bad man, but I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

"Come over there and what?" Rane said, eyeing him, smiling a little.

"Just . . ." John beckoned. "Come on, now. C'mere. Might as goddamned well, we're both drunk as shit and feelin' sorry for ourselves."

Rane, hardly believing what she was doing, indeed moved toward him and curled herself at his side, her legs folded beneath her, her hair over one shoulder. John folded his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. The smell of him - sweat and tobacco and something like sandalwood - was strong and pleasant, and his side was warm, the fabric of his denim vest rough, rasping against Rane’s shirt. The gentle motion of his breath . . . the grating of dirt and silt beneath his boots . . . the way his thumb rubbed gently at the hollow of her shoulder . . . how, _how_ long had it been since she’d felt these things? Years? Had she avoided the touch of another for so long?

“That okay?” John asked, gruff, a touch nervous.

Rane lay her head on his shoulder, relaxing beneath his touch, eyes falling shut. She felt him jerk a little at this, surprised. “Really nice,” she murmured honestly.

John chuckled. She could feel, faintly, the thump of his heart through his vest, quick and hard in his tension. “Yeah. Sure is that.”

“I’m drunk,” Rane remarked, low.

“Mmm-hmm.” John shifted, looking down at the crown of her head, and hesitantly brushed her hair back from her forehead with his other hand. Her skin was soft, smooth beneath the firelight. “You can use that tomorrow when you think to yourself, ‘now what in the hell was I thinkin’ snugglin’ up to that ugly ol’ fool?’”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop saying that, you’re not ugly.” Rane looked up at him. “You’re not ugly, John Marston, or maybe you haven’t looked into a mirror recently.”

John met her eyes. “I like that.”

“What?”

“You sayin’ my name. Sounds kinda nice, comin’ off your tongue.”

They looked at one another for a beat, the crickets loud around them. Rane started to turn away, but John tipped a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face back toward his, then leaned down and brushed his lips on hers. His mouth was soft, his beard bristly and rough. He drew back, and they stared into one another’s eyes in the low light.

“Did you just kiss me?” Rane asked him, her voice faint.

"I think I did,” said John. Behind them, one of the horses whinnied. “Reckon I’d like to do it again, matter of fact.”

He bent, once more pressing his mouth against hers, and this time one of his hands ran through her hair, lifting gooseflesh all over her. His tongue caressed her lip, his breath coming more quickly, redolent of whiskey and tobacco. Rane reached up, hesitant, and tugged gently at a lock of his hair, loving the rough, sweaty feel of it in her hand. He groaned then, low - a growl - and Rane felt the muscles in her thighs loosen a little. She pulled back, looking up at him, her lips parted, surprised and a little frightened. John stared back down at her, his breath coming in quick, hot gasps, one hand still caressing the back of her neck.

Another beat of silence passed between them.

"What's going on here?" Rane asked softly, looking at him.

John bent, his gaze going from her eyes to her lips, breathing hard, one hand on her cheek. "I dunno. You kissed me."

"You kissed me first."

"I did no such thing." John brushed his mouth against her again softly, and sighed against her lips. "Lord, I've wanted to do that so damn bad since I first laid eyes on you."

"I don't think this is a very good idea." Rane grasped his face and met his lips again, helpless not to, watching his face and relishing the sensation of the warmth of him, the roughness of his chin, the faint rustle of his breath, the shift of the muscles in his neck. She had not kissed a man since Sirius, and it was positively intoxicating. She had quite forgotten. "That's nice. That's really, really nice, John."

“Do you want to be intimate with me?” John asked her softly, drawing back and looking at her.

Rane was taken aback by the strange, almost prudish delivery of this question - in all her days, she had never heard it stated so forwardly - but her answer was clear enough.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” John took her face in both hands. “You sure you ain’t just drunk -?”

“Yes,” Rane repeated, her voice solid.

John looked at her for a moment, then got to his feet, still unsteady.

“Come with me,” he said gently.

Rane rose, wobbly, following him away from the fire. He approached Old Boy, yanked the blanket out from beneath the saddle with a flourish. Rane watched him unabashedly, marking his loping gait, the delicate curve of his waist, the glitter of his gun belt in the firelight.

“It ain’t no bed,” said John, looking over at Rane as he laid the blanket on the ground, “and I’m drunk, and I ain’t done this in a while. That okay?”

“Nope. I need a four-star hotel. Get it together.”

John laughed, but he sounded a little embarrassed nonetheless. He was pulling his boots off awkwardly and throwing them aside, and presently knelt on the horse blanket, still wobbly. Rane found herself rather taken by his uncouthlessness.

“I ain’t done this in a while,” John repeated abashedly, looking up at her with his shirt pulled halfway out of his jeans.

Rane knelt before him, grasped his shirt and yanked it off the rest of the way, throwing it aside. She bent, kissed the hollow of his throat, and looked up at him.

“Me neither,” she said, and brushed the hair back from his cheek, liking the roughness of it beneath her palm. “So let’s fix that.”

She pressed him back until he was propped on his elbows and then ran her hands down his chest, liking the way his skin felt beneath her palm, kissing his neck. He pulled at her top, watching her with an almost rabid intensity.

“Take it off, miss.”

Rane found his mouth with hers and bit his lower lip gently. “Don’t call me miss, John Marston.”

She pulled off her top, casting it away, and John ran one hand roughly down her from throat to navel, moaning low in his throat in a way that made Rane’s heart begin to race. This was really going to happen, and she didn’t think that God himself could have stopped it now. Both of them were drunk, and both of them were starved for touch, and neither of them meant to leave this camp without exploring this to completion, come what may.

She was loosening her jeans, and after an awkward moment yanked them down to her knees. John pulled her into his lap almost before she could finish getting them off, impatient, and Rane wrapped her legs around him, feeling the warm, pulsing hardness of him beneath her. She pressed her mouth against his, renewed in her urgency, almost frantic, hands exploring his chest. She had forgotten, almost, what it was like to be with a man, and it was like a cold drink of water after forty days in the desert. The need for him was imperative. She yanked at his belt impatiently, pressing her hand against the flexing firmness there, and John groaned loudly, his eyes rolling back, head lolling.

“ - jeans -”

“Workin’ on it - told ya, I ain’t done this in a spell,” John murmured, fumbling with his belt buckle. He was breathing harshly, staring up at her as if transfixed, and after a moment pulled his belt loose and flung it aside with a clang. He yanked his fly open and pulled himself out, and Rane reached down, almost unable to help herself, and grasped him in her fist, squeezing his thickness, relishing the throbbing firmness against her palm - here, another thing she hadn't even realized she had missed so dearly. John groaned again, loud enough to startle the horses this time, his brow furrowing. He touched her cheek with one trembling hand, his fingers tracing her neck.

“My God you’re gorgeous,” he moaned, breathing heavily. “I want you so goddam bad I can’t hardly stand it, darlin -”

“Have me, then,” Rane gasped, and then slid him into her as far as he would go.

For a moment the sheer, perfect bliss that washed over them both was so great that they both froze, eyes locked, hearts pounding, paralyzed by euphoria. John made a gruff sound in his throat - _gah_! - that seemed as full of shock as it was of pleasure.

“Ohmygod,” Rane gasped in a rush, and laughed a little wildly.

“Am I hurtin’ you?” he asked her, his voice almost absurdly tender.

Rane shook her head, her brows knit, eyes lidded, almost unable to speak. “No . . . no, you’re perfect . . . it's just been a while, John -”

“Well then hang on to me tight, darlin’.”

He leaned forward, putting both arms around her and hugging her nude torso to his own tightly, still looking into her eyes, and lifted her gently, moving slowly up and down. Rane grasped his face in her hands, staring back at him, her mouth slightly agape, and as she quickened the pace she felt his hands tighten on her waist, his breath hitching. And now that the initial awkwardness of coming together had passed, John was leaning into it; one of his hands was roving over her bare back, rough and lovely, and he pulled her chest toward his mouth, peppering kisses, his motions growing ever faster and deeper. Rane groaned loudly, clutching his thighs hard as he drove into her. Now that they were in the thick of it, she was beginning to lose herself in it. Every thought, every worry, was slipping away from her in the wake of the fullness of John inside her, filling her up, his hands against her skin and his mouth frantic against her own, the wild beat of his heart pounding against her chest as his pace increased. Soon, she was moaning helplessly, overtaken by him, the noises coming from her as involuntary as her own heartbeat. It had been so long, so very long.

“Oh, darlin’, you can’t do that,” John growled, low. “Don’t make that sound.”

He shifted, pulling her face to his, and kissed her so hard their teeth clicked together, and Rane’s fingers crawled over his scalp, grasped his hair and tugged gently. He moaned into her mouth, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment, his expression transported.

“Oh, sweetheart,” John Marston moaned, his voice growling, “if you do that again I won’t have much more left in m -”

Rane drove down on him with a gasp of effort, and this time the sound he made was almost a shout, startling Old Boy into a half-rear. He grasped her neck, pulling her mouth to his eagerly, rough, and now he was really moving, sweat glistening on his brow, his brows knitted. Rane's mouth formed his name, wordless, breathless, watching his expression hungrily, panting.

“Darlin’, I can’t - I can’t - oh, my _God_ -!”

John’s motions were becoming quicker now, his breath coming in hoarse gasps, and Rane could feel his heart thumping madly against her bare chest. He grasped her face in his hands, staring into her eyes, nose to nose, their breathing rough between them. The tang of his sweat was pungent and lovely, his breath hot on Rane’s neck.

“Oh honey, I’m right there,” he gasped, his voice low and raspy.

Rane was, too. She could feel the warmth in her belly beginning to bloom, that old, sweet friend that had so eluded her. She kissed him, loving the taste of him, the salt of his sweat on his stubbly chin, and held him to her closely, clutching at his back desperately.

“John - John, oh my God, oh _fuck_ -!”

“Oh, darlin’, oh please, _please,_ Rane - !”

The sound of her name falling from his lips in his moment of ecstasy was the final catalyst, and Rane was swept up as if in a tidal wave, frighteningly intense, and she cried out in shock as it swelled in her, sending nesting birds overhead to wing. John fell suddenly still, clutching her to him, his muscles tightening, his grip vicelike on her back. She felt the paroxysms of his own orgasm deep within her, and he threw his head back, shouting at the stars overhead, squeezing his body against hers.

They remained that way for a moment, riding the wave to its completion, and at last Rane felt the long muscles in her thighs begin to relax. John met her eyes, his black hair plastered to his face, breathing quickly, still holding her close to him, his heart hammering wildly against her chest.

“Christ,” he said softly. “Christ, woman.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, still panting herself, holding his face against hers, forehead to forehead. "Are you okay, John? I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to be so fast, it's just that it's been so long -"

“Better’n okay,” said John, shaking his head. “Wore out, though. Don't you dare apologize. Lord, I haven't had it that good in I don't know how long.”

“I can tell,” said Rane, placing her hand over his still-pounding heart. He laughed, out of breath, and placed his own hand over hers, lacing his fingers through Rane’s.

“Hell, it’s been doin’ that since I met ya,” he said, sounding amused.

Rane looked up at him, her hand still pressed against his heart, and a curious moment of sudden clarity passed between them in which each realized abruptly what had just happened. John felt his face flush a little.

“I uh, I ought check on Old Boy, make sure he didn’t take off on us with all the ruckus -”

“Yeah, no, of course -” Rane clambered off of him awkwardly, though she couldn’t help but look as John rose to his feet, staring down at himself, bare-chested and sweaty, stuffing his cock back into his jeans. It shone with dampness in the starlight - _her_ dampness - and Rane, surprised, felt another wave of lust roll through her. She watched him lope off into the darkness as she pulled her jeans back on, smiling in a bemused sort of way. Not five minutes after the fact and she would have happily gotten after it a second time . . . now when had _that_ last happened to her? Had it ever?

“Atta boy, easy does it,” John’s voice came from the darkness, and Rane heard the stamping of hooves.

“All good?” Rane called, pulling on her top.

“All good. They could care less.”

Rane sat back on the horse blanket, curling her legs beneath her and smoothing her hair self-consciously. John drew near, walked past her and stoked the fire with a bit of wood, then turned back, looking down at her.

“So, uh . . .” He hesitated, and Rane could see the flush in his cheeks. “You, uh, mind if I join ya, there?”

“I was hoping you would,” Rane replied honestly, scooting over. John sat roughly down at her side, still looking abashed, and looked sidelong at her.

“We oughta try to get some rest. Dutch’ll want me back at camp tomorrow.” He was still looking at her anxiously. “But I wouldn’t mind havin’ you close, a little while longer. If you’re inclined.”

Rane lay back on the blanket, propping herself up on her elbow, and patted the spot at her side. John laughed, low, and fell back with a grunt. Rane moved closer to him, tentative, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders. The crickets were loud around them, the sky shot through with stars so vivid they didn’t even seem real. _No pollution,_ Rane thought, bemused. _This is just how they ought to look, and there’s no pollution. If this is really 1899, of course._

“So?” he asked her at length. “Was I . . . was that okay for ya?”

“You were . . .” Rane trailed off, her fingers trailing along the hollow of his throat, marking his features in the darkness. “John, I haven’t been with anyone since - well, since Sirius - and it was just absolutely . . . just perfect. _You_ were perfect.” She hesitated, then added, “I came fast. I’m sorry.”

“Well, so did I. Abigail used to say I was the quickest draw in the west.” John looked ashamed, his mouth downturned.

“Well, Abigail sounds like a fucking bitch,” said Rane with sudden vitriol.

John looked at her in surprise.

“Well, she does,” said Rane, standing her ground. “You were good. Great. _Amazing,_ actually. So fuck Abigail and fuck whatever she said, she’s wrong and she’s an asshole. Fuck her.”

John turned his face toward her, and with a hesitant motion almost too tender to bear, he placed a hand on her cheek and leaning over kissed her. It was a gentle gesture, absolutely romantic, and Rane felt a flutter in her belly as he drew back.

“Come back with me tomorrow,” he said gently, rolling toward her. His free hand found hers, threaded his fingers through hers gently. “Come back. Stay for a while.”

Rane sighed, looking up at the starlight.

“After what you saw?”

“ _Especially_ after what I saw. Dutch will want what you can do, Rane, he ain’t no fool. And he pays, and treats us well. ‘Til you find your bearings.” He hesitated, then added, “and I dunno that I wanna see the back of ya just yet. Not now.”

Rane looked up at him, and leaning over pressed her mouth into his. Sirius’s face swam into her mind again, but even that . . . 

“You’re scaring me a little bit,” she said softly, propping herself up on her elbows and looking down at him speculatively.

“Well, I’m a scary guy.” John tugged at a lock of her hair gently, smirking a little.

“No, really. I . . . I feel like I . . . “ Rane struggled, biting her lip. “I feel like I might . . . ”

John was silent, looking somberly up at her. She left the sentence unfinished, returning his gaze nakedly.

“Come here,” he said at last, and beckoned her down toward his chest. She settled there willingly enough. “That kinda talk ain’t for after a fifth of whiskey.”

“Too right you are.”

John settled his arm around Rane, hesitated, then rolled toward her and wrapped both arms around her body, pulling her close. She curled into the hollow of his chest, grasping his jeans gently, and he planted a kiss on her temple, feeling an overwhelming desire to guard her. He hadn’t felt that way since Abigail. What the hell was this, anyway?

“I gotcha, girl,” he said gently, and buried his face in her fragrant hair, relishing the warmth of her body against his. “You sleep, now.”

She did, and he soon followed, and they did not part until dawn.


	5. Back to Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane and John ride home to try and convince Dutch to keep her on

_It's fare thee well my old lover_

_I never expect to see you again._

_For I'm bound to ride that Northern railroad._

_Perhaps I'll die upon this train._

\- **Stanley Brothers**

____________

The morning dawned bright and lovely, redolent with the smell of pine and horses. Rane opened her eyes, finding herself peering up into a growing pink dawn, cloudless and lovely. The last stars were fading, but the birds had already launched themselves into song, heedless that the first orange crescent of the rising sun had only just breached the horizon. The shadows around the camp were long, the breeze gentle and warm. She’d dreamed of something she couldn’t quite remember - an old house, somewhere she’d spent many years in some other lifetime - and the taste of that other place, so radically different from this one with its grim parapets and cobwebbed chandeliers, lingered with her. For a moment she was utterly confused, unsure where she was.

She was lying on her back, both hands behind her head, and glancing over saw John Marston, curled into a comma close at her side, one hand slung over her midsection, the other folded beneath his cheek in an almost childlike posture. He was shirtless, the black hair running down his chest glistening in the low light, and as Rane looked down at his face, marking the fall of his hair and the scar running down his cheek, she remembered, slowly, the evening before. The whiskey. The talking. The laughing. Then, inevitably, the sex. And then, after that -

Rane sat up abruptly, feeling a pall of guilt and humiliation fall over her. John didn’t stir at her side. She placed his hand at his side, and he moaned softly, nestling it against his chest. Rane looked at him for a moment longer, the images of last night passing through her mind with renewed fervor - his eyes staring into hers while he was deep inside her heat, his hands clutching her skin, his mouth against hers, forming her name - then hastily rose to her feet, backing away. She turned toward the horizon, squinting a little, feeling lightheaded and decidedly sick. How much had they had to drink, anyway? Christ, it felt like she’d been hit by a truck.

The answer came when her eyes fell on the smoldering fire pit, glowing with low coals and sending the merest tendrils of fragrant smoke up. The whiskey bottle lay there, empty, glistening in the rising dawn. Where she’d tossed it, she recalled, just a few moments before John had kissed her for the first time, the denotative pebble that had started the landslide. She rubbed her forehead ruefully, shaking her head. It wasn’t a handle, at least - it looked to her like a fifth - but still, they’d put the whole thing away. No wonder she felt like shit.

A shower was out of the question, at least immediately - Rane wasn’t sure what sorts of facilities existed in this strange iteration, anyways - but there was a river near where they’d camped, and its glittering surface looked damned good to her. She strode toward it, pulling off her shirt as she went, and draped it carefully on a tree nearby. She folded her jeans on the ground, lying her wand on top of it (precious commodity, that was), then waded into the water, arms wrapped around herself. It was cold - almost unbearably so - but she dove full-length in nonetheless, feeling her heart skip a beat with the shock of it. It got deep quickly, and when she came to the surface, gasping, her hair plastered to her cheeks, her toes only brushed the silty bottom.

Rane leaned back, letting herself float, her long hair clouding beneath her, enjoying the morning sun on her flesh. The birdsong, the gentle breeze, the hum of cicadas, the golden dawn - all of it was to her liking, and she began to feel a little better, headache or no. Maybe things weren’t so bad.

_Yesterday you killed must have been eight, maybe nine men, then you got whiskey-drunk and bedded some iron-slinging gaucho straight outta Tombstone, in a time and a place you don’t know or understand. What part of that seems okay to you, girl?_

This was the voice of her father, one her mind often adopted, particularly when she was coming down on herself. Rane frowned, butterflying her arms gently, the water roiling over her as it moved gently downstream. Somewhere nearby, a loon called, stuttering and eerie.

_And how about what you just about said to him, after it was all said and done? That pretty little proclamation you had all loaded up into the chamber, the one you bowed out of at the last moment? How about that?_

_I wasn’t going to say anything._

_Horseshit, you were gonna tell him you could see yourself caring about him, down the line, based I guess on that fuck he’d just thrown you. And the world hadn’t even turned a single time since you first clapped eyes on him. So what pretty excuses have you got for that?_ Her father’s voice was as scorning and derisive as ever, even disembodied. _If falling in love with strange men after sleeping with them once or twice came with a paycheck, why Rane, you’d be richer than Croesus._

_I was just drunk. And lonely. I’m not in love with him. I’m not in love with_ anyone _._

_What about Sirius?_

There it was. Sirius goddamned Black. The cramp of shame that passed through her was cold and acute. What would he have thought of her, if he’d known that Rane Roth, the mother of his child, the love of his life, had bedded the first halfway-goodlooking cowpoke she ran into in the wilderness? That she’d been untrue to him -?

“Sirius is dead,” Rane muttered. The sound of her voice was more strident than she’d intended, and a few ravens dipping their beaks in the shallows took wing, crying hoarsely. There was a shout of surprise to her left, and Rane craned her neck, letting her body sink into the water.

John Marston stood there, one hand on the fly of his jeans, clearly having been about to take a leak. The other was clapped across his eyes. The image was so utterly absurd - like a little kid scared of a scene in a horror movie - that Rane laughed in spite of herself.

“Oh Christ, I apologize, I didn’t know you was -” John was backing away, bright red from his forehead to his neck, still covering his eyes. “Sorry there, I’ll just -

He didn’t quite flee, but his walk was hasty as he strode back toward camp, the horses looking after him. Rane, still smirking, waded into shore, and began to pull on her jeans.

“Morning!” she called a few moments later, wringing out her hair. John, who had been stamping out the glowing remnants of the fire from the night before, jumped a little, looking around at her.

“Hey, I’m sorry about back there, I didn’t know you were -”

“It’s fine, don’t go clutching your pearls on my account,” Rane replied, amused, bending and rolling up the horse blanket on the ground. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

John said nothing, but Rane could see his cheeks reddening again. Rane’s smile faded, a touch stung.

_He regrets it_ , she thought to herself, and as she stowed the horse blanket onto Old Boy she felt a twinge of embarrassment. _That, or he’s just lost interest in a place he’s already been. You handed it over and now he’s got another notch in his belt, that’s all. Must have been a little while since your last one night stand, girl, that you've already forgotten how they work. This ain't Hallmark._

“You wanna head back here shortly?” Rane asked him, stroking Old Boy, not looking at him.

“I reckon we ought to, yeah, Dutch’ll likely show me the rough side of his tongue for takin’ as long as I did,” John replied. She could hear the clink of his belt as he strung it through his jeans. “Told him I’d be back by nightfall last, I imagine he’ll be gettin’ worried I was bushwhacked.”

“Still want me to come?”

John paused buckling himself up, looking over at her.

“D’you not want to?” he asked her, a trifle tentatively.

Rane turned from Old Boy to look at him, and John was again struck a little dumb by her, with the morning light streaming past her and her long hair damp with riverwater. He had been trying to wrap his head around what had happened between them the night before since he’d woken, and had continually circled back around to how drunk she must have been. How else a woman of that caliber would make love to the likes of him was beyond his comprehension. And didn’t he feel like the world’s biggest fool, for holding her that way when it was done, for kissing her that way, not like a couple of folks who’d drunk-rutted by a campfire but like lovers, _real_ lovers. A nasty thought occurred to him; she’d maybe jumped into that river to wash the stink of John Marston off her skin. The idea sent a cramp of shame through him.

“Well, I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go at the moment, so yeah, if you think Dutch won’t mind me being around a little while longer,” Rane said, trying to sound offhanded.

“He won’t,” said John, striding past her and grasping Old Boy’s bridle. He didn’t look at her, and tipped his hat low. “Come on, let’s get.”

Rane climbed into the black mare’s saddle, reeling her about, and followed John away from the smoldering remnants of the camp, feeling out of sorts and a little abashed.

  
  


JOHN was mostly silent during the ride back to Dutch’s camp, breaking it only to point out a few coyotes near the trail, watching them with low-slung muzzles and glittering eyes (the horses had both noticed as well and had lay their ears back warily). Rane glanced at him a few times, wanting to say something, but couldn’t find the right words. He still wore his hat low over his eyes, the set of his jaw grim and tight. She wondered uneasily if he was unhappy with her presence or just hung over.

“So, um . . .” she hesitated, feeling inept. “Listen, last night -”

“You wishin’ I hadn’t laid hands on you?” John interrupted suddenly, gruff.

“I - what?” Rane was taken aback. “What makes you say _that_?”

“I seen the way you was lookin’ at me.” John still wasn’t looking at her, but there was something a little hostile in his voice.

“How was I looking at you, exactly?”

“Like I was somethin’ you scraped off the bottom of your boot, that’s how,” John said, turning to her at last. His mouth was downturned, his brows knit. “I _told_ you it was a little while since I’d been with a girl, didn’t I? Right at the start!”

Rane gaped at him, a little lost for words. She had expected pointed indifference, maybe some sort of aloof assurance that it had been a strictly one-off thing, an offhand joke, something similar. What she hadn’t been prepared for was the hurt in John’s face, and the anger. He _did_ care about what had happened between them, after all. Enough to feel slighted by her.

“I don’t know where you got that idea, but that’s not it at all -”

“What, then, you feelin’ a little soft for your man? Guilty ‘bout layin’ with a stranger?”

Rane bristled at this. “What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Don’t act all surprised, I seen the way your face went all dewy when you talked about him -”

“What the _fuck_?” Now Rane was pissed. She pulled her horse to a stop, glaring at John. “ _Dewy_? What about Abigail, you getting all misty-eyed over some chick saying shitty things to you after you fucked her?”

John halted Old Boy, looking highly affronted. “Abigail don’t have nothing to _do_ with it!”

“‘Quickest draw in the West?’ She sounds like a pretty hot dish, I’m halfway in love with her myself just from hearing you talk about her -!”

“Oh, I s’pose you think just like her, then, I guess you two ain’t so different at that -”

“ _Actually_ ,” said Rane loudly, “I thought you were amazing, the whole thing was amazing, it was the best I’ve had in _years_. I like you just fine. Fine enough that I almost said some really stupid shit last night after knowing you for one fucking goddamned day. Okay?”

A thick silence fell between them as they stared at one another, this pregnant statement hanging between them. Around them, the birds continued to chirp merrily, heedless of the discomfort below.

“What d’you mean, stupid shit?” John asked her at last.

Rane regarded him for a long moment, weighing her words carefully.

“Nothing, I was just drunk,” she said at last, feeling a trifle cowardly. “What I was trying to say, before you got all salty, was that it was nice. I was going to say thank you. But I guess I was looking at you wrong, or something. So . . . so, that’s it,” she finished a little lamely.

A silence fell.

“I didn’t mean to shout like that,” said John at length. “I guess . . . I guess I was feelin’ sorta sorry for myself.”

“It’s fine.”

“It ain’t.”

“Really, just forget it, man. Misunderstanding. Happens to the best of us.”

John looked at her for another moment, strained, then sighed and dug his spurs into Old Boy’s sides, snapping the reigns.

“Come on, let’s get a move on,” he said, low, feeling a little embarrassed. _Good going, John Marston, you sure are about as smooth as busted bricks._

“Sure you still want me to come with you?” Rane asked him, trotting the mare to catch up with him.

“You askin’ if _I_ want you to, or if you should?” John asked her wrly.

“Both,” said Rane hesitantly. John laughed, tipping his hat back a little.

“Well, for starters, Bill Williamson is gonna want his horse back, and I ain’t keen on pissin’ him off,” said John, catching her eye, and just like that things were okay between them again. “And like I said last night, Dutch is gonna want you to stay on once he sees what you can do. And me, personally, I ain’t ready to see the back of you, neither. So I guess the answer’s yes, all the way down.”

Rane eyed him a moment longer, then turned her eyes back to the trail, frowning, feeling out of sorts.

  
  


DUTCH Van Der Linde was already striding toward John when he and Rane rode into camp, arms swinging, looking absolutely furious.

“Is he mad?” Rane muttered out of the corner of her mouth, making a bit of a thing of scratching her cheek.

“Oh yeah, he’s pissed,” John murmured back, tipping his hat down and frowning.

Dutch was drawing near now, his eyes slitted. “John Marston, if I told you once, I told you a hundred _goddamned_ times -!”

“Dutch, take it easy,” John said, sliding off Old Boy and tethering him. Rane was doing the same with her mare, taking her time knotting the bridle, watching this exchange a little anxiously. “We’re all fine and I’ll explain -”

“- not to skip out on me if we’re _expectin’_ you!”” Dutch finished, talking over him, his voice loud. “Just what in the hell’s the matter with you, Marston?”

“Listen, we got held up, Dutch -’

“I was this close to sending Arthur out _lookin’_ for you!” Dutch held his palms a few inches apart. “You said you’d be back by _nightfall_ , goddammit -!”

“Well, I’m back now, ain’t I?” John spread his hands. “Christ, I ain’t a kid, Dutch, I can come and go as I please -”

“I know you ain’t, but -” Dutch shook his head, grasping the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Then he took John by the shoulders and shook him gently. Rane was surprised to see the affection in his face. “You’re like a son to me. So I’m gonna fret, if you ain’t back when you say.”

“Well, I don’t mean to cause you worry,” John said, returning his gaze steadily. “But Dutch, we gotta talk. All of us. I got some things needs sayin’.”

Dutch’s broad, loving expression shrank, became introspective and shrewd, much as it had before they’d left camp. Rane had a moment to wonder about him. “Talk? About what?”

“About her,” said John, jerking his head toward Rane. “I think she can help us out. But I ain’t gonna go into it til we’re all together. It’s gonna need some explainin’, a lot of it.”

“Miss,” said Dutch, tipping his hat at her. Rane lifted her chin in response. “You get the help you needed from this feller?”

“I did,” said Rane, patting the sword hanging sheathed at her belt. Dutch’s eyes lingered on it for a moment, looking surprised.

“Bless my soul,” he remarked, looking impressed. “Ain’t much the gun type, I take it?”

“Dutch, I’m tellin’ ya, that ain’t the half of it,” John said, grasping Dutch’s shoulder. “We gotta corral ‘em. Who all’s here?”

“Hell, I dunno.” Dutch ran a hand down his face. “Mary-Beth and Arthur went into Saint Denis with Uncle, but s’far as I know everybody else is around -”

“Well, Uncle wouldn’t stand to gain hearin’ this anyway,” said John, waving a hand dismissively.

“Boy, what are you on about, what _is_ this?” Dutch sounded a trifle frustrated.

“Listen, Dutch - I swear, I’d tell it to ya straight if I could but . . .” He glanced sidelong at Rane, who was leaning against the hitching rail, stroking the mare gently and watching him. “It’s a long one.”

Dutch eyed him for a moment, still wearing that cagey, reflective expression, stroking his chin.

“Fine, okay,” he said at length. “Shepard everybody up if you must, and I suppose I will hear this out, whatever it is. This had better be good, my boy,” he added, giving John a dire look. “I normally don’t take direction from nobody, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” John said, striding off. “You just wait, Dutch. You’ll be thankin’ me.”

Dutch watched him lope off toward the opposite end of camp, then turned to Rane.

“Miss Roth, it would appear that you have impressed my boy,” he said, adopting his grandiose, hearty tone once more. “And I trust you’ll impress the rest of our family as well, if he is anything to go on.”

“I guess we’ll find out, sir,” said Rane fairly, still stroking the black mare.

  
  
  


HALF an hour found the gang gathered.

Rane had been ambling about awkwardly near the mouth of the camp, feeling extraordinarily out of place. The members of Dutch’s gang had assembled near the central bonfire, some of them looking annoyed. John touched her arm and she jumped.

“Take it easy,” he said gently. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, I just don’t know what to say to these people,” said Rane, looking at him nakedly. “I have no clue what I’m doing.”

“All you gotta do is show ‘em how you use that thing,” said John, nodding at the wand stuffed in her pocket. “It’ll take care of itself after that. Okay?”

“Marston!”

John turned. Arthur Morgan had just hitched his horse and was striding toward them.

“How in the hell are you gonna justify disappearing for a whole goddamned . . .”

He came to a slow stop, looking between Rane and John. He stared at them in silence, his eyes flicking back and forth beneath his hat. Rane was aware at once that he knew immediately what had happened between them the night before. He was hideously sharp. It had taken him the space of a second looking at the pair of them to know they’d slept together. To hell with hiding anything from this man.

A moment of silence passed between them.

“Marston, can I have a word?” Arthur said roughly.

John followed him, pulling his hat off. When Arthur thought they were out of earshot of Rane, he took John by the arm.

“The hell’s the matter with you?” he asked John coarsely.

“What the hell are you on about now?”

“Did you fool around with that girl?” Arthur cast a hand backwards toward Rane. “And don’t you lie to me, neither.”

John gaped at him. “The hell gives you cause to say that?” he managed at last.

“Well, I guess that I wasn’t born yesterday, that’s all,” Arthur told him angrily.

“I was just standin’ there mindin’ my own _business_ -!”

“Oh, to hell with your nonsense!” Arthur shoved at John’s shoulder. “What were you thinkin’, John Marston, you don’t even _know_ her -!”

“Oh, so it’s okay if it’s some prostitute in Valentine, but not her, is it?” John snapped, flushing. “The hell difference does it make to you?”

“So you’re admittin’ it? You fucked her?”

“It ain’t no business of yours where I put my own cock, Arthur Morgan,” John replied, but he could feel his face reddening. “Why don’t you mind your own goddamned -!”

"You got more sense than all this, don't ya? What the hell are you gonna do if you get her so she's got one in the chute a couple months from now -?”

“ _Jesus_ , Arthur!” John looked at him in disgust. “The hell’s the matter with you, that you’d say somethin’ like that?”

“Yeah, well, you got one kid already because you never learned how to pull out!” Arthur snapped. “How do Abigail and Jack factor into this, huh, you runnin’ off with some woman and ruttin’ with her in the wild -?”

“Abigail and Jack - ain’t - HERE!” John shouted, flaring, the cords standing out on his neck.

Arthur recoiled a little, staring at him. After a moment he folded his arms.

“She’s your wife.”

“She ain’t.” John cast him a cold glare. “And before you even say it, Jack ain’t even mine for sure.”

“So you need another one to seal the deal, that it?”

“She ain’t like Abigail. She’s _nice_. And she talks to me like I’m a person, and not a pile of shit, for starters.” John was still glaring at Arthur, his brows knitted. “You don’t know nothin’ about it, about _none_ of it. Not Abigail, and not her.”

“Sounds like you know her stem to stern for somebody just met her yesterday,” said Arthur grimly.

“Mind your own goddamned business, Arthur Morgan. You’re about to see, she’ll benefit the lot of us.”

“She gonna fuck the rest of us, too? So good we can’t see reason no more?”

John shoved at Arthur’s chest with both hands, Arthur staggered back.

“You sure do got a temper on you this mornin, Marston -”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” John snapped. “Just shut up, Morgan, ‘til you hear what she’s got to say. Can’t you just do that, for once? Just shut up?”

Arthur looked at him for a long moment, frowning beneath his hat.

“I guess I gotta,” he said, low. “Come on. Let’s go hear what all the fuss is about.”


	6. The Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John showcases Rane's abilities before the gang

_I play, I'm sick and tame_   
_Drawing the hordes_   
_I'll wait, and show the lame_   
_The meaning of harm._

\- **Soundgarden**

________________

“Alright, you lot, this here’s Rane Roth,” said John Marston.

Rane smiled uneasily around the campfire. The faces surrounding her, though Dutch had introduced them - Bill, Karen, Susan, Hosea, Sean, Charles, Lenny, others - were unfamiliar and not entirely friendly. Molly, for one, looked most displeased with her presence, sitting at Dutch’s side and glowering at Rane over folded arms. So, too, did Micah and Sadie; both were watching her with distrust.

“Where’d you dig her up, Marston? Rhodes?” Javier was watching Rane with unfiltered interest, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “You a workin’ girl, _mi alma_? ‘Cuz I think I just might find room in my heart for you, if that’s the case -”

“Please forgive Mister Escuella for his lack of manners,” said Dutch, casting Javier a dire look. “Seems he’s forgotten how to keep polite company with strangers.”

“She ain’t a workin’ girl,” said John, glancing apologetically at Rane. “And wasn’t me dug her up, it was Arthur. Pinkertons got hold of her, and yesterday we went back for her effects.”

“Well, I knew you was dumb, John, but I didn’t know you was _that_ dumb,” said Bill Williamson roughly. “One gun against a bunch of Pinkertons, lucky you ain’t shot dead.”

“Intellect rivaled only by garden tools,” Sadie agreed, looking at John grimly over crossed arms.

“I been sayin’ it for years,” Arthur murmured, lighting a cigarette and waving out the match. “All foam and no beer, this one.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” John muttered, chagrined. “It came out alright, didn’t it? And anyways, if I hadn’t’a taken her back down there I wouldn’t know none of this, so you all oughta be thankin’ me rather’n shittin’ all over me -”

“Thankin’ ye fer _what_ , John Marston, bringin’ more trouble down on our heads?” Molly snapped. “Some woman ye hardly know, riskin’ yer neck over ‘er and then cuttin’ into all of our time to wax poetic about ‘er, eh?”

“Alright, Miss O’Shea, take it easy -”

“Oh, don’t _you_ even start in, Mister Morgan,” said Molly, rounding on Arthur, “if you boys aren’t all the bloody same, seein’ a pretty bird and havin’ to swoop in an’ save her! If she was a great hairy bloke I bet you’d have ridden on, wouldn’t ye have?”

Arthur looked surprised and a little chastened by this, leaning over his knees and smoking, offering no reply. Dutch glared at Molly.

“Woman, keep your tongue,” he said sharply. Molly fell reluctantly silent, looking at Dutch reproachfully. “Seems all of y’all have forgotten your manners. I can’t imagine how Miss Roth must think of us.”

Rane glanced around again at all the faces, ranging from bored to confused to downright hostile, and wished bitterly that she’d just collected her shit and moved on. These people didn’t want her, and she didn’t blame them; this was an entity clearly pieced together with a lot of time and work. She was just some random chick that had nearly gotten one of their own killed getting her shit back. She’d have felt the very same.

“Enough beatin’ around the bush, boy, what’s this thing you gotta tell us all?” Micah asked John, shifting impatiently. “I got better shit to do than sit here listenin’ to you all bicker about nothin’.”

“Pains me to say it but Micah’s right,” Arthur agreed, looking at John. “Get on with it, Marston, some of us got places to be.”

John looked at Rane. “Alright, well first of all I guess I oughta tell ya that every one of them Pinkertons died by her hand back there.”

“Hogshit,” said Arthur at once. “There musta been a dozen of ‘em, at least.”

“Well there ain’t no more.”

Tilly looked at Rane, surprised. “That true? You do all of ‘em in?”

Rane nodded, feeling the weight of their eyes on her. “I mean, most of them, yeah. I didn’t have much of a choice. They were about to go execution-style on John.”

“So you saved him?” Charles asked Rane, his face suddenly hard and serious.

Rane balked at this, shifting uncomfortably. She could feel Arthur’s eyes on her in particular.

“It wasn’t like that, really, it was just - chance.”

“Nah, it wasn’t just _chance_ ,” John interrupted. “I got shot, Dutch, and caught in the open, and she killed ‘em, then she fixed me.”

“Horseshit, you ain’t shot,” said Dutch, but he looked a little frightened. “You’re walkin’ around just fine -”

John pulled out the shoulder of his shirt, showing them all the singed hole there. "Right here. That's where it went in. Laid me low."

“Christ!” Susan sounded shocked. “How the hell -?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Hosea, looking at John a little suspiciously. “How -?”

“I’ll get to that later,” said John, smoothing his shirt back down. “Trust me. I can’t hardly believe it myself.”

“So she’s good with a gun? So what?” said Karen skeptically. “Hell, me and Tilly is good with a gun, too, don’t see Arthur rushin’ off to rescue _us_.”

“I’ll remember that next time you need rescuin',” said Arthur, tipping her a winning grin.

"Oh, shut up, Arthur."

“She didn’t use no gun,” said John.

“Well then what was it?” said Bill impatiently.

Rane patted her sword’s helm again. For many of them, it seemed to be the first time they had noticed her sheathed piece, and a few of those bored expressions became slightly more interested.

“Would ye look at _that_?” said Sean, looking impressed. “That’s a bloody _sword_! Me granda had one just like it hangin’ over our mantle when I was wee!”

“And you shoulda seen her use it,” said John. “Cut through ‘em all like they was butter. And even if there wasn’t nothin’ more, that oughta be enough to let her stay on.”

He was looking at Dutch, who was stroking his chin, looking at Rane speculatively.

“And so we come to it,” he said at length. “You would like to ride with us, Miss Roth. Is that right?”

Rane glanced uncomfortably at John. “I just . . . it’s a weird situation,” she said at length, meeting Dutch’s dark eyes. “I’m not sure how I ended up here. I . . . I don’t really remember a whole lot -”

“Oh, trigger happy _and_ round the bend, what could go wrong?” said Molly coarsely. Rane turned to her at last, her temper flaring.

“What the fuck is your _problem_ , lady?”

“My PROBLEM is havin’ some damned manky slag show up in my camp what’s only here because a couple o’ BLEEDIN’ THICK MENFOLK -” Molly pointed at Arthur and John. “- were bustin’ at the trousers thinkin’ o’ havin’ a RIDE for their TROUBLES! THAT’S my problem with ye!”

Rane’s mouth dropped open.

“I GOT KIDNAPPED AND DROPPED HERE ON MY ASS!” she shouted, her eyes flashing. Molly recoiled, startled, her green eyes widening; clearly she had not expected this retaliation from a girl who’d seemed perfectly meek a moment before. “AND ARTHUR SAVED MY FUCKING LIFE, SO WHY DON’T YOU SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS, _YA FECKIN’ GOBSHITE!_ ”

She put on a heavy, ersatz Irish accent for the last three words, and Molly gave her such a look of utter outrage that Arthur snorted at Rane’s side.

“Are ye gonna let her talk to me like that?” Molly asked, glaring at Dutch.

“Well, my dear, you asked for it,” said Dutch, smirking himself. Molly gave him an affronted look, then getting up spun on her heel and strode off, huffing, and disappeared into a tent beyond the fire with a flourish.

“Well, I gotta say, I think I like her already,” said Sadie, who was looking at Rane appraisingly, chuckling. Her speculative, suspicious expression had vanished. “Ain’t many ladies would stand up to that ol’ hag, least that I’ve met -”

“Mind yourself, Missus Adler,” said Dutch, but for his own part he looked amused as well. “Alright, enough with the theatrics, John Marston, what I have heard so far of our young Miss Roth is that she can swing a blade, and while that is certainly impressive - no offense, madam,” he added, tipping his hat toward Rane, “- it ain’t exactly the pedigree you made her out to have.”

“Well, I guess it’s easier to show you fellers than tell it,” said John haltingly.

John looked at Rane, who recognized that he was giving her the floor. She sighed, feeling a little like a circus performer, and pulled her wand out of her jeans pocket.

“The hell’s that?” asked Javier bluntly.

“This is a wand,” said Rane, looking at him.

Susan looked over at Dutch, clearly exasperated. “Dutch, what in the _hell_ -?”

Dutch held a hand up to her. “Hush a second, Miss Grimshaw,” he said. He inclined his head at Rane. “Go on and say whatcha gotta say, darlin’. We’re listenin’.”

Rane looked around her once more, getting to her feet, fully aware that she might need to defend herself in a moment. It might have worried her, violating the International Statute of Secrecy so boldly, but she was fairly certain the Ministry of Magic didn’t exist here, wherever _here_ was. At least not in any way that meant much. Pretty solid that she wasn’t going to Azkaban. Anyways, she needed to stay here, at least until she figured out what was going on, and in order for them to agree to let her stick around, she needed to prove her usefulness, just like anybody else. For a moment she felt a flash of resentment toward John for putting her in this position. Nothing was going to prepare these people for this.

_Should have made a run for it, Rane, you goddamned idiot_ , she thought grimly, then lifted her wand. “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

There was a brilliant flash of silvery blue, and then a jaguar burst out of the tip of her wand, tail switching, and slunk off through the camp beyond the campfire, casting its glow over the camp even beneath the sun.

The response was immediate. Dutch shouted, arms flailing, and went directly onto his ass, falling over the chair behind him. Susan and Tilly screamed. Bill Williamson and Micah, who were sitting side by side, both got up and staggered backwards, clutching one another, staring at the Patronus with wide eyes, Micah pointing at the retreating jaguar with mouth agape. Arthur Morgan jolted, gasping hoarsely, and fell with arms pinwheeling onto his back as his chair tipped over, his hat flying. Sean, who was unlucky enough to have been sitting in the direct path of the Patronus and sipping on a beer when the spell was cast, dove wild-eyed out of the way, his beer exploding all over himself and Hosea, who was sitting next to him, gaping at this display in frozen shock.

“WHAT IN THE GODDAMNED HELL?” Arthur roared, clambering up onto his elbows.

“Jesus Christ -” Dutch was getting laboriously up as well, staring at Rane with something very close to fear. “What the - what was -?”

“DUTCH!” Micah shouted. Rane saw that he was fumbling at his belt for his gun, and sighed, lifting her wand again. Here it was.

“Let me explain,” said Rane, lifting her hands slowly. “Please.”

“Ain’t nothin’ _natural_ about that!” Micah spat, and leveled his piece at her, pulling the hammer back. John was on his feet in an instant, pulling his own gun.

“Micah, you best put that away.”

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” Micah shouted, shaking the gun toward Rane, his eyes wild. He pulled the hammer back, its snick loud in the silence. “WHAT ARE YOU, GIRL?”

“Just . . . just let me explain,” said Rane, still speaking very gently. The rest of the gang had frozen, watching this exchange tensely. Arthur was still on his back, propped by his elbows, staring between Rane and Micah. “I’m a witch. I can use magic. That was a spell that we use to protect ourselves. It’s gone. And I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Micah, you son of a BITCH -!”

Rane cast a fierce glance at John Marston, whose gun was still leveled at Micah. “ _Hush_.”

“Madam, I guess I don’t quite understand,” said Dutch slowly, still watching her warily.

“It’s an illusion,” said Hosea, his voice strident, making Rane jump. “Parlor trick. You all just about shitting your pants ought to realize that.”

“That wasn’t no damned illusion!” Sadie snapped at him. “I felt the wind of it when it passed, Hosea!”

“Micah, put down that GOD DAMNED gun!” Dutch said loudly, glaring at Micah. “Ain’t no reason for that nonsense!”

He slapped at Micah's shoulder with the back of his hand - a stupid mistake, all things considered - and whether by deliberation or fright, Micah fired.

Looking back later, Rane recognized how close she’d come to dying in that moment. Micah Bell was aiming for her head, not fucking around with winging her - he meant to bushwack her, whatever he claimed offhandedly later, and if she hadn’t been armed, she’d have been finished before she’d even begun. The only thing that saved her was her father’s bloodline, and as usual, it was enough. John flinched at the gunshot and pulled the trigger as well, shouting in surprise, but Rane had drawn her sword in the space of a heartbeat and it whirled around her in a flash of silver, sending both the bullet aimed for her and the one aimed for Micah flying away with a pair of sharp clangs. In the same smooth motion she’d pointed her wand at Micah and shouted, “ _Expellairmus_!” Micah’s gun flew from his hand, landing some ways away in the dirt with a thud. He clutched his wrist, gaping at her.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Dutch was shouting, glaring at Micah. “WE ARE NOT RUNNIN’ THAT TYPE OF PLACE, MICAH!"

“ _Fuck_!” Javier bellowed, shocked.

There was a beat of utter silence around Rane. The contrast of the faces pointed at her now - frightened, shocked, versus the bored, irritated ones that had surrounded her a few moments ago - was so great it was almost amusing.

“I’m gonna put this away,” she said at length, slowly sliding her sword back into its sheath. She hesitated, looking at Dutch, then added, “I didn’t want to use it, but I’m not trying to get shot today.”

Dutch looked at her for a moment, wordless. His expression had become strangely greedy, almost vulpine. The fear that was there in the moments after Rane’s Patronus had erupted from her wand was almost gone now.

“Darlin’, I sure as hell don’t understand what I just saw,” he said slowly, “but I believe John Marston did right bringin’ you to us.”

“What - did you _see_ what she -?” Micah was spluttering, glaring at Dutch.

“And you,” said Dutch, turning an imperious eye on Micah, who shrank a little beneath it. “Shootin’ at a girl ain’t half your age? Why, I never knew you was so jumpy, Micah.”

Micah looked surprised into offense. “The hell is _that_ supposed to -?”

“I told ya, Dutch,” said John, his voice low. At his side, Arthur was climbing laboriously to his feet, coughing hoarsely and dusting off his jeans. “I told ya it was somethin’ else.”

“You surely did, my boy.” Dutch was still looking at Rane speculatively. “I believe a lot more talkin’s gonna have to happen, Miss, but first I need to speak to my main boys. You’ll understand, of course, that it ain’t us bein’ rude.”

“Of course,” said Rane, aware that everyone was still staring at her.

“Tilly, Sadie, get her somethin’ to wear ain’t covered in Pinkerton blood, will ya?” Dutch said, looking toward them. Both women looked less than thrilled at this order. “Hosea, Arthur, John, come on with me. And Micah, I expect you need to go change your goddamned jeans -”

“Shut up, Dutch,” Micah muttered, glowering as he bent and picked up his gun from where it had landed. “Foolishness, is what it is.”

“Well, I shall be the judge of that,” said Dutch. “Boys?”

John gave Rane an encouraging look. “Go on, let ‘em get you cleaned up,” he said gently. “They ain’t so bad.”

Rane watched as he, Arthur, Hosea and Dutch strode off.


	7. Dutch Makes a Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hosea, Dutch, Arthur and John discuss whether Rane belongs with the gang. Meanwhile, Sadie and Tilly give Rane a less than hospitable welcome.

_The creature lunged_   
_I turned and ran_   
_To save a life I didn't have._

- **Hozier**

________

By the time Dutch reached Hosea’s tent and John, Arthur and Hosea followed him inside, he was positively leaping out of his skin. John thought from the jut of his body that he was frightened, or maybe pissed. It wasn’t until Dutch turned to face them and he saw the broad grin stretching across his face that he realized his mistake. The man wasn’t afraid, he was excited, fit to split.

Dutch grasped John’s shoulders and beamed at him. “My boy, you have done right by us, and I am sorry I doubted you, truly I am.”

“Now, hang on, Dutch, before we start tossin’ accolades around,” said Arthur, lifting both hands, “why don’t we talk about this a little bit.”

“I agree. This is no cut and dry situation, Dutch.” Hosea took a seat on his cot, looking a little pale. “I admit that I was expecting some sort of gimmick from that girl, the way John was carrying on, but I don’t know that I can explain _that_.”

“Coulda been a trick,” said Arthur without much conviction.

“Sadie said she felt the wind of that thing pass her by,” Hosea replied. “And I have never known that woman to exaggerate.”

Dutch ignored them both. He was still looking at John. “What else can she do? What do you know?”

John passed a hand over his face. “Hell,” he said, “what _can’t_ she do is more like it -”

“What have you seen?” Dutch was looking at John with a curious, almost hungry expression.

“Well, I seen her do in all them Pinkertons,” said John, “and you saw how fast she was with that blade or whatever the hell it is. Dutch, I tell ya, I ain’t never seen the beat of it, took her all of eight seconds and nine or ten of ‘em was dead or dyin’. Not scared of em, either, not even a little. Then she sorta, I dunno, shot fire at the rest of them when they turned tail -”

“ _Fire_?” said Hosea, looking taken aback.

“Yeah, big ol’ wave of it, I could feel the heat off it from where I was layin’ some twenty feet off. Set ‘em on fire. They was pullin’ off their clothes and screamin’ and carryin’ on -”

Dutch laughed heartily. “Don’t that do my heart good to hear!”

“So I asked her to tell me what the hell I’d just seen, and that’s how we ended up out so long,” said John, feeling Arthur’s eyes on him. “She told me some of what she can do. There’s spells for pain, spells for killin’, spells for makin’ ropes that wrap around somebody . . . hell, she even said there’s one that unlocks doors and another one that wipes out memories -”

“Holy shit,” said Arthur, low.

“You said she fixed you? When you got shot?” said Hosea.

“Ah, yeah, damn near forgot - I was shot bad and I probably woulda bought it right there if she hadn’t. I can’t hardly even feel it now. She says that thing is a weapon, but it’s also a tool. A what do you call it . . .” John hunted for the word Rane had used the night before. “A _conduit_.”

“This could be perfect,” murmured Dutch. He’d begun pacing back and forth in the tent, stroking his chin. “This could be just the damn thing.”

“Alright, now Dutch, listen, just _hang_ _on_!” Arthur said again, sounding impatient. “We don’t know nothin’ _about_ this girl, where she comes from, who she is, _nothin’_! What makes you so sure we can trust her?”

“Yes, and I’ll be the first to point out the obvious,” Hosea added darkly. “Based on what we just saw, if she were to turn on us, I am not wholly sure that we could contend with her.”

“Oh, hell, Hosea,” said Dutch, waving a hand dismissively. “One damn girl against a dozen guns, most of ‘em twice her age? She can’t be more than thirty, if she tried kickin’ up dickens we would have no issue with -”

“Dutch, come on, use your head,” said Arthur. “I just watched her hook two bullets, for Chrissakes, and she didn’t even have that thing drawn when Micah fired. She came from the _hip,_ like Annie goddamned Oakley. You understand how _fast_ you gotta be to do that, how _strong_? I mean, the _size_ of it, the fuckin' thing must weight ten pounds, and she ain't no bigger than Sadie!”

“I quite concur,” Hosea agreed. “The agility required for that - it’s almost not even human, Dutch. I don’t know that we could stand against something of that caliber, not without losing some men.”

“Well, she _ain’t_ human,” said John.

Dutch, Arthur and Hosea all looked at him.

“The hell’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“She says she’s got somethin’ else in her, called it Sindarin,” John went on. “Bunch of immortal warrior type folk. Says she’s a half-blood.”

Arthur gaped at him for a moment, then let out a hollow laugh with absolutely no humor in it.

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’da said this girl was crazier’n a shithouse mouse, the type of shit she’s sayin’,” he remarked, sounding blown over.

“Sindarin?” Hosea looked skeptical. “No such animal.”

“Not here, maybe,” John agreed. “She ain’t from around here, Hosea. I don’t know just _where_ she’s from, and sometimes I get the feelin’ she don’t exactly know, either. Said she just woke up by the side of the road. She worked with the law, in . . . wherever she come from. Kinda a special agent. And she ran with a resistance group, fightin’ against the government. London, someplace.”

“Boy,” said Arthur, low. “I’m likin’ this less and less the more I hear.”

“What’s not to like about workin’ against the government?” said Dutch.

“ _That’s_ what you got outta all that? Hell, you’re crazier than she is!”

“She doesn’t sound like a Londoner.” Hosea was looking at John speculatively. “And I don’t believe I have ever heard of Sindarin before. How do you know she isn’t lying?”

“The hell does it matter?” Dutch asked roughly. “You all saw what she did back there!”

“It don’t,” said John, “and I wouldn’t have believed her either if I hadn’t seen what I did. I ain’t never heard of a Sindarin before either, but she says it’s why she’s so sharp and why the horses are spooked of her if she’s upset. Also might be why she . . . well, why she looks that way.”

Arthur snorted. “Looks _what_ way, John Marston?”

“You know -” John flapped a hand, inept. “Ain’t hard on the eyes.”

“Anybody else gettin’ the feeling Marston got had?” Arthur asked, looking at Dutch.

“Oh, hush,” said Dutch distractedly, giving him a hard look. “Can’t fault him for noticin’ her, Arthur, she’s purty and he’s young. Leave the boy alone, lookin’s free.”

“ _Lookin’s_ free, yeah,” Arthur muttered. John cast him a forbidding look. Dutch missed it - he was pacing again, stroking his chin - but Hosea didn’t.

“John,” he said, meeting the other man’s eyes. “You tread softly, now. We don’t know hardly nothing about that girl.”

“Why the hell’s everybody so interested in my goddamn private life all of a sudden?” John asked heatedly. “You wanna holler at somebody for jumpin’ bones, why don’t y’all have a go at Sean and Karen -!”

“I think you know what I mean,” said Hosea grimly. “Karen ain’t settin’ fire to Pinkertons and dodgin’ bullets.”

“It don’t matter where she comes from,” Dutch said, still pacing, clearly not listening to the others. “What matters is she’s here now, and I want her. We can use her. Hosea, you agree?”

Hosea shrugged. “I don’t feel that I trust her just yet, Dutch, but I cannot deny that she could be useful. We just ought to be careful.”

“Arthur? What do you think?”

Arthur shook his head, putting his hands on his hips. “Y’know I don’t do much thinkin’,” he said. “But I gotta say, I don’t get any nastiness off of her. Seems like a decent lady, apart from all that witch nonsense. And she saved John, which puts her good in my books ‘til I see different. But I ain’t sayin’ I trust her, same as Hosea,” he added, leveling a finger at Dutch. “I wanna take her with me next time I leave camp and get a feel for her, just me and her.”

John shifted his weight, sighing. Arthur met his eyes, looking grimly amused.

“ _Just me and her_ ,” he repeated firmly. “I wanna see for myself how she handles herself, and I don’t want you struttin’ around with your feathers all up while I do.”

“You’re being a real son of a bitch, you know it?”

“I got a job for you tomorrow, Arthur, you can take her along,” Dutch said, nodding. “Get to know her, try and see if you can get her to show her teeth. And then you report back to me and Hosea,” he added, suddenly businesslike. “I want it from your mouth, Mister Morgan.”

“All right, Dutch.”

Dutch clapped John on the shoulder, beaming. “You have done well, son, _so_ well. The _possibilities_!” He shook John gently, his grin broadening and becoming vulpine. “This could be it, boys, this could be what we’ve been waiting for!”

“Ain’t I heard _that_ before,” said Arthur, but John thought he looked a little less skeptical than usual.

  
  


SADIE and Tilly had whisked Rane off to Susan, who was currently digging in an ancient-looking chest inside her tent, bent over and muttering to herself. Both Sadie and Tilly were watching Rane with clear mistrust. Neither of them had said much to her. Sadie in particular had made no secret of the fact that her hand was resting on the butt of her revolver.

“So seems you and John are gettin’ on okay,” she said at length.

“Better’n okay, from what I seen,” Tilly remarked coolly.

“Yeah, he seems like a nice enough guy,” Rane replied.

“Has he mentioned his _wife_?” Sadie asked her pointedly.

“He did, yeah. He said she cut out with their kid a while ago.” Rane heard the coarseness in her voice and made no attempt to suppress it. Molly jumping her ass had been more than enough to fill her bullshit meter for the nonce, and she was prepared to suffer no more of it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re aware of her, at least, so ya don’t go tryin’ nothin’ silly,” Sadie went on, quite brash. “You can just keep on makin’ eyes and leave it right at that, miss, if you’re as clever as you look.”

“You wanna try and tell me what I can and can't do, lady? Try me.” Rane rounded on her. “Why are y’all ready to read me my rights, anyways? I didn’t bust in here trying to start any shit with you people -”

“We ain’t ready to read you yer rights,” Tilly said. “We just ain’t used to trustin’ some woman outta hand when she’s workin’ voodoo like it ain’t nothin’, that’s all.”

“It’s not just me,” Rane said, feeling a trifle affronted. “There are hundreds of people like me within the first twenty square miles, I can promise you that -”

“Well, _I_ ain’t never met one,” said Sadie roughly. “And I don’t trust ya, not yet, so I guess you’re gonna have to find a way to live with that, if Dutch lets you stay. Personally I don’t think Micah was so far off the mark.”

“So you gonna try and shoot me, too?” Rane asked baldly, facing her. “Because he missed me, I dunno if you noticed.”

Her hand had strayed to her sword’s hilt, not grasping it but brushing her fingers along its surface. Sadie met her gaze, quite fearless, her blue eyes flashing.

“Well I ain’t no Micah Bell, lady,” said Sadie, fingering her own weapon. “I’m a surgeon with my iron, especially at this range. So don’t you get no funny ideas.”

“Sadie Adler, will you quit bustin’ her balls? _Christ_!” Susan had straightened at last, folding a black button-up over her forearm. Both Sadie and Rane jumped. “She didn’t ask to be brought here, in case you forgot, she came ridin’ in trussed up and gagged on the back of Arthur’s nag and dropped right into the middle of us.”

“Missus Grimshaw, you _seen_ what she -!” Sadie began defensively, but Susan slapped her shoulder lightly with the back of her hand, causing Sadie to recoil.

“Yeah, I seen it. She ain’t given us no damn cause to treat her bad.” Susan was glaring at Sadie and Tilly, who had shrunk a little beneath her imperious gaze. “If Dutch wants her stayin’ on, you’re gonna have to get over your damned selves and try and learn some manners. Ought to be easier than it seems to be for a lady used to warm her husband’s bed rather than gunslingin’ with a bunch of filthy old fools, if ya ask me.”

Sadie and Tilly were silent. Susan turned to Rane and stuffed the top into Rane’s arms, who took it, surprised.

“That’ll fit ya, I hope,” she said, taking Rane by the shoulders and inspecting her critically. “I ain’t got no spare bluejeans lyin’ around, not that’d fit you anyway, but I’m sendin’ Missus Adler into town tomorrow to pick some up, she looks about your size.”

Sadie looked affronted at this. “I ain’t doin’ _no such_ -!”

“You surely will, ma’am, or I’ll see to it she gets a pair of yours instead, and you go back on cookin' duty,” said Susan, casting her a dark look.

Sadie huffed, looking furious. “Missus Grimshaw, for Christ’s _sake_ -!”

“You go on, the both of ya,” she snapped. “Oughta be ashamed of yourselves, treatin’ some stranger so bad just ‘cuz she scared ya a little bit. Least of all not half an hour after that goddamned nitwit Micah Bell tried to put a bullet in her head.”

Sadie stormed from the tent, flinging the flap back and looking insulted. Tilly lingered a moment, looking a little abashedly at Rane.

“Well, I thought it was good, you killin’ all them Pinkertons by your lonesome, at least,” she said at last, sounding strained. “Real good.”

With this she looked at her hands and then left the tent a trifle meekly. Susan watched her go, then turned her eyes back to Rane, appraising and clear.

“Now, I ain’t sanctionin’ what I seen,” she said, “but you got a place here for now, ‘less Dutch says otherwise, and Tilly and Sadie, they’ll come ‘round eventually. They’re good girls, they just gotta act tough, same as all us womenfolk here do, surrounded by a bunch of blockhead men.”

Rane grasped the black top in both of her hands, feeling outrageously grateful. “Thank you,” she said honestly. “It’s been a weird few days, but . . . thanks.”

Susan waved a hand, regaining some of her briskness. “Ah, you’ll earn yer keep if Dutch lets ya stay, same as everybody else, ain’t gonna be a free ride,” she said. She paused, then tipped Rane a wink and added with a barely concealed smile, “I cannot deny it, seein’ that bitch Molly O’Shea get a little taste of her own medicine from someone who ain’t me sure warmed me up to ya, darlin’, and I bet I ain’t the only one.”

Rane smiled. “She started it.”

“Well, she usually does,” said Susan, flapping her hand. “Off with ya. You keep that same cot, take a load off ‘til the boys come back with a decision. Need somethin’, you come see me.”

Rane considered thanking her again, but Susan Grimshaw didn’t strike her as a particularly accommodating woman with regards to maudlin professions of gratitude, so instead she turned, folding the shirt over her arm, and opened the flap of the tent, letting in the sunshine.

“One more thing, miss,” Susan said. Rane turned back. Susan was shutting her trunk, not looking at Rane. “That John Marston. Sadie said true, he’s like as not a little bit sweet on ya. And between us girls, I wasn’t born yesterday and I ain’t fool enough to think all you two did all last night was talk.”

Rane felt her face flush. “Look -”

Susan held up a hand, however, stopping her. “I ain’t fishin’ for excuses and I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about none of that, it ain’t my business. But I’ll tell you this, Miss Roth.”

She straightened, fixing Rane with a serious look.

“He wasn’t any better a husband than he was a father, runnin’ off on ‘em both and treatin’ em like dirt while they was here. Jack was a dear wee thing, and Abigail wasn’t the sweetest flower in the bunch but she tried to do right by him. They cut outta here first chance they got, and it ain't because they won the lottery. So my advice to you, darlin’, is to steer clear of John Marston, ‘less you wanna end up the same as Abigail. I know he ain't hard on the eyes, but you just take it from me.”

Rane looked at her for a long moment, uncertain how to respond. Susan, however, flapped her hand at Rane again, terse.

“Off with ya. Go on. Stew’s on to cook if you’re peckish.”

Rane thought of saying something more, but she could tell from the way Susan had turned from her that she was all finished talking. Instead, Rane turned and strode off into the sunshine, feeling confused and a little nauseous.


	8. Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Morgan takes Rane out on Dutch's orders to test her salt

_Broken sundown, fatherless showdown_

_Gun hip, swollen lip, bottle sip, yeah I suck dick_

_Loose grip on gravity falls_

_Sky blinding, crumbling walls._

\- **Cocorosie**

_______________

Rane had seen neither John nor anybody else that evening, and hadn’t much cared to - her bunk faced the bayou but she could hear her name spoken behind her well enough. The stew over the fire had smelled tempting, and Rane was hungry - she hadn’t eaten anything since she’d been kidnapped by the Pinkertons besides a couple of strips of jerky John had offered her the evening before - but she wasn’t about to try for it. After Micah, Sadie and Tilly, she thought she had a fairly good bead on the general consensus regarding their new guest, and she was none too anxious to revisit it. In the end, she fell asleep with an empty belly and a full mind, something she’d become far too familiar with in the last few years of her life.

She awoke to Arthur Morgan kicking the foot of her bed roughly with one boot, his fingers hooked into the loops of his jeans. She started, grasping for her sword, which she’d planted dutifully at her side when she’d fallen asleep, but knocked it off the bed with a clang in her surprise.

“The hell -?” Rane gaped at Arthur in utter bewilderment, then glanced up at the sky, which was hardly lit by the dawn yet.

“Madam, your chariot awaits,” said Arthur dryly, gesturing toward the head of camp.

“What are you talking about?”  
  


“Well, Dutch wants me to take you out so I can see what you’re made of,” said Arthur. He was leaning against the side of the wagon easily, arms folded, eyeing her beneath his hat. “So you’re gonna have to hop up and come take a ride with me, if you wanna hang around here.”

Rane got up, holding the blankets over her mostly bare chest. “You mind? Can I at least get dressed?”

Arthur turned away prudently. “‘Course ya can.”

“So where are we going?” Rane asked as she shrugged on the black blouse Susan had given her and buttoned it up.

“You’ll see soon enough,” said Arthur enigmatically. “You can borrow Bill’s horse again. Unless you wanna ride in back of me, that is.”

“Think I’ll manage, unless you’re opposed,” Rane replied wryly, smoothing her shirt and admiring herself in the filthy mirror at the side of the bed. She didn’t look bad, but she needed to get after her hair - it was mangy as hell after a full three days without a brush. Touch of sunburn on the top of her forehead, too, she noted with some amusement. Chalk it up to a very long time indoors, paired with a very sudden bout beneath the heavens. “Last time I rode in back of you wasn’t exactly good times for me, truthfully.”  
  


“Well, I apologize if it wasn’t the fiesta you were hopin’,” said Arthur dryly. “You make sure to bring your -”

“Sword and wand, yeah, I got ‘em,” said Rane, looking up at Arthur as she strode out from beneath the shade of the tent, tying her long hair into a hasty knot. The sun was low and pink and rather lovely. “What is this, some kind of test or something?”

“Well, yeah, you could call it that,” said Arthur, sounding amused as he loped off toward the hitched horses. “Dutch don’t normally let nobody in unless they can prove themselves. So that’s what you’re gonna do this afternoon, if things go according to plan.”

“Saving John wasn’t proof enough?” Rane couldn’t quite help herself as she untied the reigns of the black mare from the hitching post, her voice betraying a touch of reproach. “And shooting off a Patronus? Laying out ten of those Pinkerton guys? Not quite making the mark, I guess?”

“Oh, that’s all fine and well, miss,” said Arthur easily, reeling his horse around and sounding not in the least bit put out. “It’s just that John’s the one saw you do all that, and he’s a young feller wearin’ rose-colored glasses, so I’ve been tasked with seein’ for myself whether you’re worth your salt.”

“He’s not lying about what happened,” Rane remarked, feeling a touch attacked. “And I heard what you said to him, for the record, when we got back into camp, so you can drop the whole innocent-until-proven-guilty act.”

Arthur glanced at her, for the first time looking truly surprised.

“What are you on about now?”

“Well, whether you believe I’m half-Sindarin or not - and yeah, I heard that whole spiel in Hosea’s tent too, before you get too antsy, and I know you aren’t chomping at the bit to accept it,” she added, casting him a side-eyed smirk, “I _am_ half-Sindarin, and one of the best bits about being half-Sindarin is you can hear everything, whether you want to or not. Case in point.”

Arthur rode on at her side, but Rane could feel his bewilderment, and it did her heart some good. She hated being on this side of things, and a little bit of power was heartening, petty or not.

“Well my mama used to say droppin’ eaves was the height of ill manners,” said Arthur at last.

“ _My_ mama used to say that asking a man whether or not he’d gone in bareback was just as bad.”

Arthur looked sidelong at her, frowning. “Now you look here, you’re talkin’ about somethin’ you don’t know nothin’ about.”

Rane turned her eyes on him, her temper flaring. She’d found her patience growing thin ever since she’d found her way into this camp, and the fact that everyone around her seemed bound and determined to make a spectacle of the fact that she’d slept with John Marston was getting to be a bit much.

“I’ll tell you what I _do_ know,” she said roughly. “I know what common decency looks like, and you must be the fourth or fifth person to say something to me all side-eyed about John Marston, and I haven’t even spent a full _day_ at that camp. Nobody’s talking about how I saved his damned life in the middle of a shootout. How about you guys focus on _that_ for a change, instead of whether or not we broke one off? How about the part where I laid waste to a dozen assholes trying to gun for him? Is _that_ on the fucking itinerary anytime soon, for all of you guys making out like you care so much about him?”

Arthur looked, for the first time, genuinely chastened. For a few minutes he said nothing at all, only pulled out a pack of smokes and mouthed one out, lighting it.

“Well I never thought of it that way, Miss, and I cry your pardon,” he said eventually, quite sincere. There was none of his former bluster. “Truly, I do.”

Rane waved this off, but she was smirking a little and looking sidelong at Arthur speculatively. She liked him quite a bit, though she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was his blatant mistrust of her, or his clear affection for John and Dutch. She wasn’t sure yet.

“Tell me where we’re going and I’ll cry all the pardons you want.”

“We’re goin’ to see about a couple horses,” said Arthur, abandoning pretense. “Fancy ones. We can sell ‘em for a pretty coin. If they’re to my likin’, we’re gonna steal ‘em. There’s apt to be trouble, if the stablehands ain’t willing to part with ‘em peaceably.”

“Well, I’m sure I can handle them.”

“Whoa, _hang_ on there.” Arthur was looking over at her, a trifle amused. “You ain’t handlin’ _nothin’_ , missy, ‘less I say so. Let’s get that much straight right off.”

“Well, what the hell did you bring me for, then?” Rane was looking at Arthur reproachfully. “I coulda slept another three or four hours, you know -”

“Oh, that right? You still wore out from the other night?” Arthur looked askance at her, grinning.

“You know you oughta go into comedy, you’re a pretty funny guy.”

“So I’m told.” Arthur tipped his hat back, looking over at her. “I brought you along so I could watch how you handle yourself, I told ya, not so you could spring the whole damn operation. I still got a job to do, madam, whether you’re here or not, and we gotta get them horses to the fence. This gets fucked up, it’s my ass what’s gonna get reamed, not yours.”

Rane fell silent, pondering this as they rode on. The sky was beginning to lighten, but there was a wave of pinkish-gray clouds rolling in from the west, towering into the sky. As she looked, a flash of heat lightning ignited them, casting the thunderheads into sharp contrast.

“Bad weather comin’,” Arthur said, following her gaze and frowning. “We oughta get a move on, I ain’t wild about the idea of hustlin’ in the rain, are you?”

“I don’t mind, honestly. But I’ve never hustled horses, so . . . “

“Can you pick ‘er up a little bit? Without gettin’ thrown?” He was looking at her seriously, but his eyes were dancing impishly. “Think you can handle that, little lady?”

Rane placed the back of her hand on her forehead, falling back in a faux swoon.

“Oh, goodness gracious, I dunno if my tender little heart can take it, mister,” she said mournfully, then kicked the black mare into a gallop, bypassing him. She cast him a long-suffering grin over one shoulder and called, “I guess you’ll just have to go on without me!”

“I reckon I’ll take that as a yes!”

Arthur looked after her, his expression appraising, studying her lean form with interest. He wasn’t sure he trusted her, not entirely, but he liked her just fine. He felt she was dangerous, certainly, and not just because she was faster than a tail-winded prairie fire with that blade. Though he hadn’t told Dutch and Hosea this, he’d had no trouble at all believing she’d run ten Pinkertons to the ground from the get-go; he’d come to his own conclusions the morning she’d returned with John Marston, blood-smattered and filthy. For starters, two against twelve was tall odds, but Arthur had been rubbing shoulders with killers for a long while, himself not least among them, and he’d seen that girl’s eyes yesterday. She hadn’t been shellshocked by the fact that she’d just been present for a dozen murders. Hell, she wasn’t even shaken up. The only things he’d seen were uneasiness, likely from being in the middle of a camp full of strangers, and the clear guilt of having bedded John Marston. That wasn’t the look of some dainty tenderfoot who’d never witnessed death; that was the look of a killer, someone who’d laid men and women to waste with impunity. That the Pinkertons weren’t her first victims had never even crossed his mind after that. He suspected Hosea had seen it too, though Dutch . . . well, Dutch didn’t see much these days, not like he used to. In a way she reminded him of Sadie Adler; same flagrant temperament and coarse sense of humor, anyways. They’d get on like a house on fire if Rane stuck around, Arthur had no doubt. If Sadie ever decided to trust her, that was.

There was something else about her too, something Arthur couldn’t put his finger on. She was different in a strange way, and he didn’t think it was just this Sindarin business (something else he was growing to believe, regardless of how outlandish it sounded). Her manner of speaking, for one thing, was like nothing he’d ever heard, and not just that accent, which was decidedly not terribly London-esque. And though he’d ribbed John a little for thinking so, she was indeed peculiarly beautiful, in a strange, ethereal way, as if she belonged in a church handing out sacrament rather than riding around on horseback in the wild. She had an easy way about her, some ineffable quality that made a man feel right at his ease when she was near. He could see, without any trouble, why John had taken a liking to her. He surely wasn’t the first.

_Listen to this shit!_ Arthur thought, grimly amused. _You're on your way to being as sweet on her as Marston is, that kinda talk. Why don't you reel it in a tick, Morgan, and quit letting yourself get distracted by a pretty face like you're eighteen again?_

“For somebody who talks such a big game, you sure are slow,” Rane called from up ahead, casting Arthur an amused grin.

Arthur spurred his horse on to catch up, putting these long thoughts out of his mind.

  
  


“THAT. There. See it?”

Rane nodded, following Arthur’s squinting gaze. They had heeled their mounts on a hillside overlooking a broad plantation, rife with what she thought must be sugar cane. In the distance, cropping up behind the tall, stately house itself, was a barn, surrounded by meticulously maintained hedges. The storm clouds were drawing ever nearer, casting a curious orange pall over the world.

“Horseshit, you don’t even know what I’m pointin’ at,” said Arthur, looking over at her, amused.

“I swear to God, John and I had this _exact same_ conversation, it’s like you guys are related.” Rane pointed toward the barn, sounding a trifle exasperated. “That barn. There are four guys, one of them armed with some kind of long gun, right in front of the door. I can see the ass end of a cart around back. There’s a horseshoe hanging on the wall. At least two horses back-to, one of them tacked up. And the dude with the gun has a Tom Selleck mustache. That good enough for you, or should I keep going?”

Arthur looked at her for a moment, considering this. He couldn’t see what she was talking about, not without a spyglass in his hand, but he’d been inside that barn before, and she was describing it fair to midland, right down to that horseshoe. For the first time since the night before, when her Patronus had run through their camp, he felt a thread of disquiet.

_Look here, now this is exactly what Dutch asked for,_ he thought, trying not to look as disconcerted as he felt. _He wanted you to have a look at what she’s capable of in the field, and that’s what you’re doing. So don’t start falling to pieces like a nun in a whorehouse when she demonstrates it. You already knew she was strange, the only question left is how we can use her._

“No, but seein’ as how I don’t have much choice,” he said at length, not looking at her. “We’re goin’ down there on the premise of askin’ after purchasing those horses.”

“Clever. Lure them in with deception. Failproof.”

“So it turns out we both got a funny side to us, it’s just that mine’s a touch less poorly.”

Rane was surprised into laughter at this. “Please, continue, sir.”

“We’re gonna ask after them horses, and they’re gonna be gentlemanly and lead us in to have a look, especially with a lady at hand,” Arthur went on. “And I want you to ham it up, Miss Roth, make ‘em think they got a snowball’s chance in hell, if you take my meaning. Pretend they look like John Marston, if it helps,” he added, smirking.

Rane snorted. “Nice.”

“So once we’re inside, we’re gonna knock ‘em stupid, and you and me are gonna ride them horses right out into the woods. We’re gonna have to go west, otherwise they’ll spot us in the cane fields.”

“I dunno, maybe not,” said Rane, lifting her chin toward the rows of sugar cane. The workers there, spaced two or three a line, were beginning to look toward the growing thunderheads rolling in. “I think they’re gonna have to head indoors pretty shortly here. We just have to time it right.”

“That may be, but I ain’t tryin’ to take a chance on it,” said Arthur, but he glanced over at her appraisingly again nevertheless. “John says you rode with the law once, and I think I may just believe him, hearin’ you talk that way.”

“I dunno if I’d call it that,” said Rane, faintly amused. “I was an Auror. I hunted dark wizards. More like a bounty hunter than a cop.”

“Huh.” Arthur watched her a moment longer, massaging his chin. “Well, in any case, you got a point, but I’d just as soon stick with headin’ west once we nab ‘em. There’s apt to be shootin’, maybe killin’, depending on how well-behaved them fellers decide they wanna be. You oughta know that and be ready for it. If they draw, we ain’t gonna be so congenial.”

“That’s fine.” Rane was peering off toward the thunderheads. Admiring the goddamned weather, Arthur realized, while he was sat here talking about shooting a stranger. If that wasn’t the mark of someone unafraid to execute, he didn’t know what was.

“You okay with cuttin’ a man down, if he goes for his piece?”

“Yep.”

“Because I can’t have ya hesitate in the moment of it, you gotta get after it.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“You sure?”

“Jesus Christ, Arthur, I said _yes_.” Rane looked at Arthur, a touch impatiently, and he was stricken again by the weird beauty that had so enchanted John Marston. She was twice as striking beneath the strange skies. Beyond them, the first roll of thunder sounded, deep and rumbling. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“You done your share of killin’, ain’t ya?” he asked her bluntly. “I can tell you have. Just by the way you carried yourself back into camp after seein’ those Pinkertons into their graves.”

“How do you mean?”

“Just that.” Arthur looked into her eyes. “You done your share of it. Ain’t ya?”

“I told you, I was an Auror,” said Rane quietly. “And I fought with the Order. Sometimes my job made it necessary. Just . . . not with guns.”

“That sword, then.” Arthur continued to watch her, curious in spite of himself. “Not bullets but a blade.”

“Yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes by magic. Sometimes . . . sometimes other ways, yes.”

She averted her eyes, suddenly brisk, and Arthur recognized defeat. She wasn’t going to talk to him any more about this, not here.

“What else have you got for me? Before we ride down there?”

Arthur looked at her profile a moment longer, then turned his eyes towards the barn. Lightning flashed in the thunderheads beyond. It was getting dark.

“Nothin’. Best thing is to just try not to have too much of a plan laid out, it’ll make it too obvious. Once we’re down in it, we’ll figure it all out. Just remember what I said . . . ham it up. ‘Leastways ‘til we can get in where nobody can see.”

“Why can’t you be seductive and I be the one who bashes them upside the head?” Rane asked, looking resentful.

“Well I know I’m pretty, but I ain’t pretty enough for a couple ranch hands to ogle,” Arthur replied, amused. “Just mind me, now. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

“Fine.”

Sighing, Rane reached up and popped open the top two buttons of her blouse. Arthur felt his heart thump a little bit harder at the sight of it, and had a moment to feel grimly amused with himself. All the hell he’d given John over this woman and here he was riverboating her like a fox in a henhouse.

“I think I can handle it.” Rane was looking toward the clouds again. Arthur tipped his hat back, following her gaze. “Unless you want to get rained on like a motherfucker I think we should get going.”

“Yeah, you ain’t wrong,” he admitted, and spurred his horse on. “Come on.”

  
  


“GENTLEMEN!”

Arthur lifted a hand toward the pair of guards that were standing near the gate leading to the house. Rane found herself admiring it in spite of everything; it was gorgeous, set among vine-twisted oaks and leaning on tall alabaster pillars. Whoever lived here, she had no doubt that they were fantastically wealthy.

“What you all want?” one of the guards asked. He held a long, slender rifle across his chest and was eyeing Arthur mistrustfully from beneath his bowler hat. “This here’s private property.”

“We come to see about buyin’ some horses. Wanted to set eyes on ‘em first, before throwin’ our money down. This here’s my wife, Susannah.”

Rane flashed the guard a smile. “Pleasure.”

“Ah, alright, then, well you wanna head straight back to the barn, then,” said the guard. He was looking Rane up and down quite wantonly, and she felt a momentary twinge of revulsion. “There’ll be a couple-few folks tendin’ the horses what you can talk to ‘bout seein’ ‘em.”

“Much obliged.”

“Ma’am,” said the other guard, flicking his hat’s brim and giving her a rather vulgar grin. Rane tipped him a little salute, feeling a little sick.

“Gross,” she said when they had ridden out of earshot. “I already don’t like this.”

“Well, you ain’t meant to like it, I told you. This is an evaluation, not a damn day trip.” Arthur snapped the reigns and his horse broke into a trot. “Come on, now. Let’s get this done, I don’t wanna give those two limpdick Braithwaits back there a chance to start runnin’ their mouths, that first one was lookin’ at you like you was a prime rib.”

He gestured up ahead, where two ranch hands were setting their pitchforks against the wood of the barn, watching Rane and Arthur approach.

“You said there were four?” Arthur said quietly, lifting a hand toward the two men and grinning.

“Yep.” Rane was doing the same, beaming at the two men and speaking out of the corner of her mouth. “Rest must be inside with the horses.”

“Don’t you do nothin’ foolish,” Arthur muttered, then raised his voice. “Mornin’, fellers!”

“Mornin’ to ya,” said one of the ranch hands, removing his hat and nodding at Rane. “Ma’am, mornin’.”

“And what a fine, _fine_ one it is!” Rane replied with gusto, pulling her mare to a halt and smiling at them. She could feel Arthur glancing sidelong at her and felt a touch of amusement. He’d asked for ham, and ham was what he was going to receive. “I sure do hope we aren’t intruding on anything important, gentleman.”

“Oh, gosh,” said the other ranch hand, also removing his hat and grinning at Rane. “Ma’am, we ain’t doin’ nothin’ but swampin’ out these quarters.”

“Yeah, ain’t intrudin’, miss, we would welcome the distraction,” said the first man. He, too, was grinning at Rane in a sort of dumbstruck way, and Arthur, still sitting astride his horse and watching all this, had to struggle with laughter. She’d damn near charmed the pants off of both of these guys in all of ten seconds.

“Well, I can see you’re both working so very hard,” Rane went on, fumbling with the saddle. Arthur, who had seen her slip in and out of it several times without the slightest issue, found himself trying not to laugh again. “Goodness, but aren’t I about the worst at this -”

Both the ranch hands were immediately rushing forward to help, practically scrambling over themselves. Arthur dismounted, stilll observing this spectacle with amusement.

“Here, lemme give ya a hand, ma’am -”

“Hold on, now, you’re okay -”

Rane allowed one of the ranch hands to lift her by the waist off of Bill’s mare, and she landed lithely on her feet, looking perfectly flustered and dusting herself off. She grasped the man’s forearm, beaming at him, and Arthur saw a flush rise in his face that had nothing to do with the approaching storm.

“Oh, thank you, sir, you’re far too kind, I’m just the absolute worst with horses sometimes.” She sighed lustily, patting her cheek. “Oh, I’m just so _embarrassed_ , you must think I’m terribly funny.”

“Ah, miss, it ain’t so funny,” said the second man, waving a hand. “Horses ain’t for everybody. That’s surely an interestin’ sidepiece,” he added, eyeing Rane’s sheathed sword with clear bewilderment.

“Oh, just a family thing,” Rane said at once, batting her eyelashes. “It belonged to my daddy. He told me on his death bed, he said, ‘Susannah! You carry this saber until you come meet me in heaven!’ And I said, ‘daddy, you better believe I shall!’ And so I have, even though it looks a bit silly, and it’s _awfully_ heavy for a lady sometimes, and heaven knows I wouldn’t know the first _thing_ about using it -!”

Arthur snorted. Neither of the ranch hands seemed to notice.

“Well, I’m very sorry for your loss, miss, and if it ain’t too forward for me to say so, I sure think it suits ya. Still just - just as purty as a picture, even so.”

Rane clasped her hands before her bosom, looking delightd. “Well, aren’t you just the _sweetest_ -!”

Arthur cleared his throat pointedly, linking his thumbs through his belt and approaching them. Both ranch hands looked over at him.

“As I was sayin’,” he said, “my wife and I here are interested in purchasin’ a couple Braithwaite horses, and we was hopin’ we might set eyes on ‘em before handin’ over our cash. You think we might could have a look?”

The ranch hands looked at one another.

“I don’t see no reason why not,” one said, shrugging.

“You’re both so _very_ kind,” Rane gushed.

“You’ll have to excuse my wife here, she don’t get out too often,” said Arthur, unable to help himself.

“Ah, well, you’re a lucky man, mister, even so,” said one of the ranch hands, tipping his hat toward them. “Ain’t many ladies want to observe the intricacies of purchasin’ a horse.”

“Well, I reckon she’s gotta learn sometime,” said Arthur, trying to hide his grin behind his hand. “I may not always be around to handle all the important business, ain’t that right, darlin’?”

“My husband is just always so _generous_ with all his knowledge, ain’t he just a peach?” Rane remarked, casting him a long-suffering grin, and clutched at his arm, pressing herself against his side. Act or no, Arthur felt a definite warmth rising in his belly at her closeness. “Bless his _heart_ for being so clever.”

“Well, come on in, let’s let ya have a look.”

The ranch hands were leading them into the barn, and once their eyes were dutifully averted Arthur shoved Rane off of him, grinning. She cast him a close-mouthed smile, lifting her eyebrows.

“So which one ya got your eye on, mister?” one of the ranch hands asked. Arthur took a moment as they entered the warm, hay-fragrant barn to assess the area; the other two hands were indeed forking at the empty stables, both looking with interest at Rane, and there were three horses, not two - one black, one white, one chestnut. He decided on the first two, eyeing them with genuine impress. They were tall beasts, muscular and well-built, with coats that gleamed with health. Whatever else these Braithwaites were, they had come by their reputation for well-bred stock honestly enough. “We got these two, they’re the younger ones, than one there goes for about fifteen-hundred, and this one here, she’s gonna run ya -”

There was a brilliant flash of light, igniting the whole barn and causing all three horses to rear, eyes rolling. Arthur, shocked, staggered back against the barn door, throwing an arm over his eyes. There were several thuds.

“Christ, what in the _hell_ -!?”

“ _Incarcerous_!” Rane said sharply, and there was a fourth and final thump. Arthur dragged his arm from his eyes, blinking at the afterimages of the bright red light. All four of the ranch hands were on the ground, three of them clearly knocked unconscious, limbs akimbo and hats knocked askew. The fourth was wrapped in what appeared to be rope and was jackknifing like a landed fish, his eyes wild above the gag. Rane was putting her wand back into her pocket, looking around her almost mildly.

“Look,” she remarked, and pointed toward the horseshoe hung on the wall. “ _Told_ you I could see it.”

“Are you simple?” Arthur was snapping at her, fumbling at his collar and yanking his bandanna over his mouth hastily. “What did I say, woman?”

Rane yanked the bound man up a hitch with one hand, gesturing to Arthur wryly. The man looked between them with terrified eyes. “Just to go on the record with it, buddy, that guy is _not_ my husband.”

“You’re gonna get us _hung_ !” Arthur was still staring at the three ranch hands on the hay, not quite sure he could believe his own eyes. “I said we’d have to bushwhack ‘em if there was _trouble_ , not while they was lookin’ the other way and mindin’ their own damn business -!”

“Help me, would you?” Rane had dropped the bound man unceremoniously and was dragging one of the other ranch hands into a nearby stall laboriously. The horses were still fidgeting, stamping and braying in fright and staring at her with flattened ears. “And they’re not _dead_ , Arthur, they’re just Stupified. They’ll wake up with a headache in a couple of hours. So you can rest assured your immortal soul is still - _ugh_ \- in one - _piece_!”

She punctuated this last by dropping the lifeless form of the ranch hand in the empty stall. She strode back out, kicking the displaced hay around, and began pulling another one into the same place, yanking him by the ankles, her face contracted with effort. Arthur continued to gape at her, feeling a little shellshocked.

“ _Hello_?” Rane dropped the man she was dragging and looked at Arthur impatiently. “You gonna help or stand there looking pretty? Which one?”

Arthur shook his head, as if to clear it, then strode forward and grasped the third unconscious ranch hand around the armpits, lugging him into the stall alongside Rane. Outside, the thunder rolled once again, sharp and close, and the soft patter of the first raindrops could be heard striking the wood of the barn roof. It was going to pour like hell, and not too much later.

“What about that one?” he asked as Rane footed the hay over their tracks again. “Why didn’t you . . . whatever . . . Stupefy _him_?”

Rane straightened, sighing. “Not quite fast enough,” she admitted, a statement Arthur found absurd. “By the time the other ones were down, he was about to start yelling. Weren’t you, buddy?” She added, nudging the man with the toe of her boot. He was still staring up at her in clear horror. “Yeah, I saw that crazy look in your eyes, you bet your little ass I did. So I wrapped him up like a cozy little burrito, and that’s where he’s gonna stay until someone comes looking, and with that storm riding along I dunno if that’ll be anytime soon. You comfy, honeybunch?”

The man nodded hastily, looking frightened. Arthur laughed. He couldn’t help it.

“Woman, you are rightly insane,” he remarked.

Rane ignored this. She was approaching the horses now, all three of whom had begun to rear and stamp again at her approach, their faces long with fear. She reached out toward the chestnut and it snapped at her like a crocodile, ears flat.

“Leave ‘at alone,” said Arthur, slightly alarmed. “They’re spooked, they’re apt to kick your silly head in -”

Rane had begun to speak, however, in a very low and soft voice, and Arthur fell silent, still standing near the empty stall, watching her curiously. She was looking at the chestnut horse, quite unafraid, her face turned up towards it, the low stormlight riding high on her forehead, and again Arthur found himself a little stricken by her beauty. Scary, but lovely. No goddamned wonder John was sweet on her.

She was speaking in a language Arthur had never heard before, but the sound of it made his arms light up with gooseflesh. It was musical, beautiful, oddly sinuous, and the horses calmed at once as she spoke, their ears pricking, all three stilling and watching her alertly.

“ _An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo, ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë_ ,” Rane said, looking into the horse’s eyes. “Hush, now, I’m sorry I scared you. _Sérë, sérë_ . You’re okay, aren’t you? _Sérë_.”

And to Arthur’s surprise, the horse that had tried to snap Rane’s fingers from her hand not seconds ago placed its muzzle against Rane’s cheek, eyes soft, tail flicking mildly. She grasped its head in her hands, stroking its blazed forehead, still watching its eyes.

“See, it’s not so bad,” she murmured. “You’re okay. _Sérë_.” She looked at Arthur, who was still staring at all this with slack-jawed bewilderment. “Which ones do you want to take? Or all three?”

He blinked, suddenly aware once more of the situation at hand. They’d just knocked out three Braithwaites and bound and gagged another, and there was a job to do.

“Well, I guess grab that chestnut and I’ll get the white one,” he said brusquely. “Christ, you better warn me next time you think about pullin’ some silly shit like that or I’m liable to have a heart attack right then and there.”

“Told you I could handle them,” said Rane lightly, pulling the stall open and stroking the chestnut stallion fondly. “I like this guy, he seems pretty chill.”

“Yeah, now that he ain’t tryin’ to take your fool hand off.” Arthur was pulling open the stall where the white mare was standing, adjusting his bandanna as he grasped at her bridle. “You oughta cover up your face, though I guess it don’t matter now that fool’s seen you, he’ll remember you just fine judgin’ by how he was eyeballin’ you earlier -”

“No he won’t,” said Rane, drawing her wand and aiming it at the bound man, who began to squirm and groan at the sight of it. “ _Obliviate._ ”

There was no brilliant flash of light this time, but Arthur noted how the ranch hand relaxed beneath his bindings, his face softening and becoming almost sleepy.

“You aren’t going to remember a thing, are you?” said Rane, looking at him from over the stallion’s smooth back.

The ranch hand shook his head, still quite relaxed. Arthur looked at Rane, his eyes wide.

“Did you just -?”

“Yeah, I did. His memory’s wiped. Don’t start clutching your pearls, Arthur.” Rane reached over and yanked the bandanna from his face, smirking. “Let’s go.”

  
  


THEY almost made it off the Braithwaite plantation unmolested, but in the end it was the guard from the gateway who called them on their play. It was the two horses following along at their heels, Arthur thought, even more than it was the two thoroughbreds between their legs, each of them worth better than a stack of bills.

“Hey! Hang on, there!”

“Don’t stop,” Arthur murmured, looking over at Rane, who was looking backwards uneasily. “He’s just blusterin’, he ain’t gonna -”

“HEY!” the guard was lifting his gun now. “I SAID HANG ON, GOD DAMMIT!”

Arthur kicked his horse into a canter and Rane followed. The first shot rang out, strident, likely just a warning aimed for the sky, but there were apt to be more.

“Let me curse him,” she said, fingering her wand longingly. “He was the one staring at my boobs earlier, the nasty little son of a -”

“No.”

“Just a little hex, come on -”

“ _No_ !” Arthur’s voice was sharp. “Don’t you even _think_ about it, he’ll never forget us if you start in with that shit, and I got a price on my head!”

Rane groaned loudly, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t you start sassin’ me, neither, a woman ought not do her husband that way -”

“ _Hilarious_ , this one, let me tell you -!”

“HEY! STOP! STOP THEM TWO!”

And now more shots were ringing out. Arthur went for his pistol, but Rane was quicker; she had drawn her sword and there was a flash as she swung it around, followed by the ear-splitting sound of bullets richocheting off its blade. Arthur felt the rush of air as one flew past his ears, wavering the hair at his temple.

“Watch it, woman!”

“Next time I’l just let you get shot.” Rane glared at him, the reflection from her sword flashing over her forehead. “A ‘thank you, Rane’ would be nice once in a -”

There was a harsh bray behind them, and Arthur turned just in time to see Bill Williamson’s black mare crumpling over her hooves, headshot, tumbling end over end and coming to a stop in the dusty field. He felt a cramp of anger, glaring back toward the Braithwaites, who continued to gun for them.

“Dirty sons of bitches, shooting down a goddamned animal - HEY, HANG ON!”

Rane had seen this, too, and all the lightheartedness had gone out of her face; in the growing rain and the dim orange light, she looked suddenly furious. She drew her wand, heedless of Arthur, and pointing it backwards shouted, “OCCUMBO MAXIMA!”

There were four or five guards who’d caught on that they’d been robbed and were running through the sugar cane, shooting, but Arthur saw each and every one of them fall awkwardly to the dirt as if a rug had been swept from beneath them, their guns tumbling to the earth, crying out in shock. Arthur rounded on Rane.

“I _just said_ -!”

“I didn’t do anything, they just fell,” said Rane, stowing her wand and glaring at him from beneath her brows. “Nobody’s going to believe them if they say otherwise later one. You saw what they did, low-blow motherfuckers. Shooting a goddamn horse.”

Arthur glared at her a moment longer, then spurred the thoroughbred on, leaning over her muscular neck.

“Yeah, alright. Just come on, we gotta find someplace to hide out for a little bit. In case we’re tailed.” He looked at her sidelong, studying her - she was grasping the reigns, her hair swept back from her brow, scowling ahead as the raindrops began to fall more quickly - and added, “you done good back there. For the record.”

“I know,” said Rane, casting him a side-eyed smirk. “I told you I would.”

They rode on in the growing storm, while the thunder rolled overhead.


	9. The Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The horses are stolen, and now comes the epiphany

_Yearning song of flesh on flesh_   
_Young hearts burst, open wounds, bleed fresh._

\- **Cocorosie**

_______________________

THE storm was well on its way by the time Arthur Morgan and Rane Roth found a spot to camp. It was Rane, in the end, who insisted upon it. Arthur was riled up, she assumed from the shootout as well as being present for a touch of offensive magic, and seemed dissatisfied with every site she suggested, constantly looking over his shoulder as if he expected a battalion of Braithwaites to be tailing them. At last, Rane ran out of patience when Arthur had rejected another perfectly good location - this one a cave in the wall of a limestone outcropping - out of hand.

“This is _fine_ , right here!” She was glaring at Arthur from beneath driving rain, her hair plastered to her cheeks. “Look, it’s _dry_ in there, let’s just set it up and -”

“It’s too close to the road!” Arthur looked over at her from beneath his hat, which was running with water. He’d gestured backwards. “They coulda followed us.”

“I knocked them all onto their asses, they _couldn’t_ have followed us that fast -!”

“ _We_ don’t know that! And I ain’t too comfortable takin’ chances!”

Rane, who was drenched to the bone, hungry, tired and pissed off, pulled the chestnut stallion to a sharp halt, glaring at Arthur furiously.

“ARTHUR, IT’S RAINING LIKE HELL!” she shouted, her eyes wild. “THEY’RE NOT FOLLOWING US, WE’RE SOAKED, I HAVEN’T EATEN ANYTHING IN TWO DAYS AND I’M FUCKING _COLD_! HERE IS FINE! SO MAKE CAMP!”

Arthur flinched at this outburst, looking sullen. “Christ, you don’t have to _yell_ -!”

“MAKE CAMP, ARTHUR!”

In the end, he had. The cave they’d found wasn’t huge - it might have spanned twenty feet end to end - but there was enough room for a fire, which Rane saw to first thing once Arthur had dropped enough firewood into a pile at the mouth of the opening.

“You gotta wait for ‘em to dry off, otherwise it’ll never - oh,” said Arthur, wilting somewhat as Rane ignited the wood with her wand. “Or I reckon that’ll work, too.”

“Ugh. Thank God.” Rane was kneeling before the fire, crossing her long legs beneath her, hands held palms out toward the flames, her eyes falling shut in bliss.

Arthur was lowering himself to the rock floor at her side, grunting laboriously. “I reckon this ain’t such a bad spot, after all. Least it’s dry.”

Now that the cave was illuminated by the flickering orange light of the fire, he looked around them. Not all limestone, after all; he saw the glitter of rose quartz toward the back, along with the ancient nest of what he thought might have been a bear or a wildcat, nothing more now than a roughly circular mass of twigs and fur. The rain was still falling hard outside, the thunder rolling heartily, accompanied by flashes of lightning that cast the forest beyond into sharp resolution.

“Told you,” Rane was saying. She was looking at the three remaining horses, who’d been hitched beneath a tree a little ways outside the mouth of the cave. They seemed mellow enough; the chestnut stallion had rested one hoof on its toe and shut his eyes, ears relaxed, quite unperturbed by the flashing storm. The white mare was shaking the rain from her mane. “I feel bad, leaving them outside in this shit.”

“They’ll be alright,” said Arthur, following her gaze. He hesitated, then added, “though I gotta say, I sure do feel terrible about Bill’s mare. She couldn’t have been more’n five, maybe six years old, poor beast.”

“Yeah, me too.” Rane was wringing out her long hair, the water pattering down onto the stone beneath her. “Bunch of assholes.”

“Well, we hit ‘em right in the pocketbook, so I reckon we got the last laugh.”

"So what do we do now?”

Arthur considered this, rubbing the back of his neck and looking out into the storm. “Wait ‘til nightfall, I guess. Then get the horses to the fence, get our money and head back to Dutch.”

“Why nightfall?”

“Because fencin’ stolen horses ain’t exactly the Lord’s work, that’s why. Men swing for less, and them Braithewaites are liable to be scoutin' around lookin' for us, or hollerin' horse thief down at the sheriff's office. Besides, I ain’t in a hurry to ride through this mess. Maybe it’ll have fallen off a little by then.” He was digging around in his satchel. “You know, I believe I’d like a little bite to eat, if you’re peckish, Miss Roth -”

“Hell yes, I’m peckish.” Rane was looking at Arthur with interest. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Got some bison somewhere in here, shot one yesterday night and wasn’t in the mood to cook it - ah, here we go.” He produced a bloodstained kerchief from his satchel. Rane recoiled a little. “Couple of filets sound okay to ya? I know it ain’t exactly cuisine, but -”

“So you just keep raw meat in your bag?” Rane asked him bluntly, eyeing the kerchief with suspicion.

“Well, sure.” Arthur was drawing a blade from his belt - a long, savage-looking knife that Rane had to admire a little - and skewering a wad of meat. “Sprinkle a little salt and sage on ‘em, they’ll keep for a couple few days, long as the flies don’t get to ‘em.”

Rane made a face. “Gross.”

“Well, if you don’t wanna get in on this, madam, you can just sit right over there and -”

“No, no,” Rane said quickly, “it’s fine, I was just -”

Arthur was grinning as he held the meat over the fire. “Ah, I thought as much.”

The cave was soon rife with the good smells of cooking game, and whether or not the bison had been stored in a leather satchel for the better part of a day in the summer heat had become an absolute nonissue for Rane by that time. After a good two days living on whiskey and broth, it was taking every ounce of her self-control not to seize the damned thing half-cooked right out of the fire and wolf it down like a dog. When Arthur handed Rane the finished product - hot, glimmering with roasted fat and steaming in the humid cold - she snatched it up and devoured it in the space of a few seconds. It was good, fresh, somehow _whole_ , even unseasoned, and she licked her fingers clean without a trace of self-consciousness. She could have happily eaten another with room to spare.

“ _Christ_ , that was good,” she remarked, shaking her head. She leaned back on her elbows, rolling her head back. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Well, I can’t let ya go hungry or Dutch’ll have my head,” Arthur replied, rotating his own filet in the flames. He was looking at her in spite of himself, sat back like that. The fabric of her shirt, still soaked through from the storm, clung to her body in a way that made him very aware of his manhood. He let his eyes rove over the long curve of her throat, safe in the knowledge that she couldn't see him looking, marking the pared angle of her jaw and the fork of her ribs visible beneath her shirt . . . the damn thing was soaked through, sticking to every little nook and cranny, right down to the shallow cleft of her navel. Something about the way her lean torso swelled with her slow breath was terribly fetching, and Arthur, his heart pounding a little harder now, abruptly found himself wondering how it would taste to place his mouth on her breast through that shirt, to suck the moisture from the thin material while he ran a palm from her throat to her belly, maybe even -

There was a soft thunk, and turning back to the fire he saw the filet that had been skewered on his knife sitting in the firewood. “Oh, _shit_ fire and save the matches -!”

Rane sat up. “What’d you do?”

“Ah, dropped the fool thing into the fire, is all,” said Arthur, a little red-faced, snatching at the filet irritably and wincing at the lick of fire on his wrist. He caught it by the tip and tossed it out of the cave’s entrance, scowling. The horses followed its progress with their eyes, mildly curious. “Just as well, I guess, my appetite ain’t what it used to be anyways.”

He glanced over at her, feeling a trifle ashamed of himself for leering at her. Hell, more than leering, halfway to fantasizing about her. It wasn't the first time she'd crossed his mind in that capacity since he'd deposited her at camp, either. Christ, he was attracted to her.

_Put that shit outta your head, idiot,_ he thought grimly. _Just put it to bed, before you get yourself into a world of shit. She's half your damn age and you don't know nothing about her, besides how you'd like those long legs wrapped around your hips and those big lips on your mouth and those fingers running through your hair and -_

Arthur rubbed his chest, annoyed by the way his heart was pounding. "Knock it off, fool," he muttered, low.

"What's that?"

"Nothin', talkin' to myself." Arthur shifted, clearing his throat.

"Means you have money in the bank."

"Don't I wish."

A brief silence fell between them, punctuated only by the torrential rain and the crash of thunder overhead. At length, Arthur pulled off his hat and tossed it to the side, leaning back against the wall of the cave, quite at his ease, and pulling a pack of smokes out mouthed one out and popped a match alight with his thumbnail. Rane found herself looking at him. It was the first time she’d seen him without a hat, and in the low firelight, with his wet hair clinging to his scalp and the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow on his chin, he was quite handsome. Those eyes, too . . . they were clear, bright blue and rather striking, almost flintlike.

“So,” he said at last, looking sidelong at Rane. She was still sitting cross-legged at her repose, chin in her palm, tracing a circle in the dust with a stick. “Let’s talk.”

Rane looked at him warily. “That sounds like I’m in trouble.”

“Well, you ain’t, I got questions, is all.” Arthur blew smoke out in a plume, and Rane watched it edge lazily toward the mouth of the cave before being swept away in the wind. “Back there, in that barn, you talked to them horses in a funny way and they calmed right down. What’d it mean? I ain’t never heard nothin’ like it, and I been around a good long while.”

“That was Sindarin,” said Rane, still tracing with her stick. She hesitated, looking skywards, as if considering this, then shrugged. “Eh, sorta. Some of it was Quenya.”

“And what the hell is that?”

“I swear to God, when you guys dig your heels in on something . . .” Rane looked up at Arthur, the firelight playing on her face, her long hair damp and plastered to her neck, and he felt another powerful wave of . . . something . . . wash through him at the sight of her eyes on his. The sooner nightfall came, the better, before he got himself into a world of trouble. “You guys are dead set against it, but I’m telling you, my dad is Sindarin, and he taught me the language when I was a kid.”

“Alright, but how come it calmed ‘em?”

“I dunno, it’s just like that.” Rane shrugged. “Some people think it’s sort of like magic, just older. It makes you feel a certain way, is all, and it comes in handy with horses. They just . . . respond to it. I dunno. Might as well ask me to explain the tides. It’s just nature.”

“Say somethin’.”

Rane looked, for the first time that evening, a little reticent. “Why?”

“What’s the matter, you bashful all of a sudden?” Arthur looked amused, eyeing her over his smoke. “Funny, you seemed pretty much okay with tyin’ some man up tighter’n a duck’s ass this mornin’ -”

“What do you want me to say?” said Rane, sounding long-suffering.

“Oh, hell, I dunno. Say somethin’ nice.”

“ _Pedin i phith in aníron, a nin ú-cheniathog_.”

Arthur was amused to note the gooseflesh rising on his skin at this. He scrubbed at his forearm, smirking. All of this was so goddamned _weird_.

“What’s it mean?”

Rane was grinning, now poking at the fire with the stick in her hand, her still-damp hair slung over one shoulder. “Means I can say whatever I want but you won’t understand me anyways.”

"Cheeky." Arthur looked at her speculatively, massaging his rough chin, then flicked his smoke into the fire. “You know, I ain’t Dutch and I don’t have the final say, but I believe you might could fit in with the rest of us just fine.”

Rane sighed, tossing the stick into the flames and leaning back. “I don’t know what else I’m going to do, quite frankly. So I guess that’s good news.”

“You ain’t got no family? Nobody missin’ you someplace?” Arthur asked her.

“Nope.” Rane was staring off into the storm, watching the trees sway with the wind. “Not here, anyways.”

“Well.” Arthur watched her for a moment, feeling oddly inept. “The gang, though . . . Dutch is like a father to me, he’s my best friend. They’re mostly good folk. Well . . .” He considered this, smirking. “Well, we ain’t _good_ folk, if you take my meaning, but . . . decent to one another, anyways. Like a big, nasty family. Full of sons of bitches.”

Rane laughed.

“And that John Marston . . .” Arthur hesitated, resettling himself and resting his elbow on his knee, looking into the dancing fire, his hand dangling. “You know, I know it don’t take a genius to see it, but he’s already sweet on you.”

Rane sighed, looking over at Arthur, her expression weary. “This again? Really?”

Arthur shrugged. “Well, I’m just sayin’. He’s . . . well, he’s young, and a little bit mucked up in the head from Abigail, is all. Just be gentle with him, is all I’m askin’. He’s a good man, deep down, once you get past all the bullshit and bluster.”

“You know,” said Rane slowly, “we were drunk. _Really_ drunk. Like falling down drunk.”

“Well, alright. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Just . . . “ Rane shrugged noncommittally. “I wouldn't say either of us exactly made an informed decision. You’ve never gotten wasted and fooled around before?”

Arthur looked uncomfortable at this. “I reckon I might’ve, yeah -”

“Oh, please, ‘might have’ my ass,” said Rane mildly, grinning at him. “Spare me, Arthur. It’s human goddamned nature and you know it. I swear to God, you guys have got your panties in a bunch about some pretty silly shit. ‘ _Might have_ ’ . . . . Jesus wept.”

“Alright, fine, just - that ain’t what I was trying to say.” Arthur looked flustered. “What I’m tryin’ to say is . . . just, be kind to him. That’s it. He ain’t old enough to understand a lot of things, is all. And Abigail, she’s got a rough side to her, and I know she ain’t around anymore, but they was meant to be a family, and John -”

“He told me all this.” Rane was flicking rocks into the fire, looking irritable. “I’ve talked to strangers more about my sex life the past two days than I have in my whole goddamned life, Arthur, for Christ’s sake.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about that, I’m talkin’ about Jack!” said Arthur, a touch roughly. “That’s his daddy, whether John thinks so or not, and if you ain’t never had a family -!”

“I have,” Rane cut in, her eyes suddenly flashing, glaring at Arthur in the same cold way she’d glared at the men who’d shot Bill’s horse. He hushed at once. “I’ve got a daughter, Arthur, and I don’t have a clue where she is, or _when_ she is, and she’s not yet four. And I had a man who was murdered in front of me not four months before she was born. So I get it, I really do, I promise.”

“Well, I didn’t know none of that,” said Arthur, looking a little shamefaced.

“All I’m trying to say,” said Rane slowly, “is that I understand the situation he’s in, and I sympathize. I really do. But sleeping with a stranger does not a relationship make, as I’m sure you know, and I’m getting kind of tired of you guys getting on my case about something that’s none of your fucking business. And furthermore,” she added, getting into her stride and casting Arthur a grim look, “I think John Marston has probably slept with _plenty_ of people who weren’t Abigail, so if you want to jump someone’s ass, why don’t you jump _his_? It was just _sex_ , for crying out loud! Listening to you people talk, you’d think I’d murdered the goddamned _Pope_ or something!”

She tossed another stone at the fire with far too much force and missed. It bounced off the far wall with a clink. Overhead, thunder rolled once more. Arthur watched Rane for a long moment, pensive.

“What d’you mean, _when_ your daughter is?” he asked her suddenly.

Rane looked up at him, her expression suddenly uncertain. It was a startling change; the anger and resentment at being questioned about John Marston were gone in the space of a second, and she looked like nothing so much as a coltish teenager, legs folded beneath her, eyebrows knitted and a little frightened.

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Well, I already think you’re crazy, so what harm?” said Arthur, smirking.

“I think . . . I think I died. Before I ended up here, I think . . .” Rane sighed roughly, shifting, her eyes on the dancing fire. Outside, the rain continued to fall in a torrent. “I remember a war, and then I was stabbed with something . . .”

She tapped her breastbone gently, looking down at her chest, and Arthur followed her gaze, helpless not to. God, but he needed to get a grip.

“I died. I’m almost sure of it.” Rane looked up at Arthur nakedly. “And there’s more. John told me that the year was 1899.”

“Well, last I checked,” said Arthur, faintly amused, but he wasn’t wild about the disquieted expression on Rane’s face. “What the hell are you on about?”

“The year Idril was born was 1997.”

Arthur looked at Rane for a long moment, saying nothing. She returned his gaze wordlessly. Before them, the fire crackled, heedless, and the rain continued to fall beyond their shelter, rattling against the boughs.

“Bullshit,” Arthur said at last, his voice low.

“It’s not,” said Rane quietly.

“You’re confused, is all. Just . . . maybe you’re misrememberin’. Those Pinkertons, they like to bash ladies around before they get up to dickens.”

Rane looked at him for a moment longer, then turned her eyes back to the flames. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

Arthur watched her for a few more seconds, then reached over and grasped her shoulder gently. “You okay, there?”

“Yeah. Just tired.” Rane turned back to him, surprising him by offering him a winning smile. She was a good liar, but not good enough; her eyes were still haunted, empty and oddly lost. “Maybe we should catch a few, before tonight.”

“Yeah, well that ain’t the worst idea I ever heard.” Arthur watched her speculatively for another moment, then decided not to pursue it. Maybe she _was_ confused. Hell, who wasn’t? “I ain’t sure I can sleep till dusk but either way I’ll wake ya. Get some shut-eye.”

  
  


ARTHUR woke in the late afternoon, lying on his back, both hands clasped atop his chest. The rain was still falling heartily, but the thunder had become a low grumble, no longer the beastly shout it had been, and the light was yellowish, low and sort of beautiful. The campfire had burned down to embers, and it was cold indeed; he could feel the tips of his fingers beginning to go numb. He turned his head.

Rane Roth lay there, her slender form curled into a tight comma like a cat, her arms wrapped around her torso and her hair strewn beneath her. She had drawn her knees up to her chest and was trembling violently with chill even in her sleep, clutching at her shirt, lips pursed and brow knitted. Arthur sat up a tick on his elbows, feeling a cramp of guilt at the sight of her, and glanced toward where the horses were hitched outside. They’d all three bedded themselves down beneath the oak’s overhanging boughs, their legs curled beneath them and their heads bowed. There were blankets beneath the saddles, but they’d be soaked through and of no use here. And the goddamned fire . . . without her casting her voodoo, it’d be hell for Arthur to get it going again.

He looked at her a long moment, then moved closer to her, his jeans rasping on the stone floor, and rolling over onto his side he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close to him. She stiffened against his touch, her breath hitching, and he hesitated, feeling artless, but then he felt the long muscles in her arms relax, and he resettled himself, putting his arms around her and pressing the small of her back toward him. She relaxed against his warmth, the trembling in her limbs slowing and then stilling, and one of her hands reached out and grasped his shirt in an almost childlike gesture that Arthur found strangely endearing. She was a cold-blooded thing, and a strange one, but in that moment he felt very warmly for her indeed.

“That’s better,” she murmured, her face pressed into his chest, and Arthur started a little at the sound of her voice.

“I seen ya tremblin’ like a leaf over there. Told ya, can’t have you dyin’ on me, Dutch’ll skin me alive.” Arthur’s voice was surly, and he found himself a little amused by it. Mister Tough Guy, that was him, not a single bend or break as far as the eye could see. “It’s cold as a bastard in here.”

"Yeah, well." Rane nestled a little closer to his chest, folding her spare hand against her body and nuzzling her head into the shelf of his throat. Her voice was low, raspy and lovely so close to his ear. "This is nice. Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, 'course."

Rane fell silent, and Arthur tentatively resettled his arms around her, allowing his palm to rest between her shoulderblades. He could feel her breathing, gentle and hot, against his neck, and the smell of her hair - woody and sweet, like jasmine and hickory - was heady and near. He looked down his chin at her, feeling her thighs flush with his, firm and warm even through his jeans, and with a motion made somewhat gauche by his timidity he stroked her back gently. The muscles there were well-defined, lean and soft beneath his touch. And then, before he could stop it, the idea rose in his mind defiantly: bare skin just beneath, separated from him only by this thin, damp piece of fabric. Once this idea had manifested itself, his mind began to gallop off onto its own private spoor, presenting him with florid images, musings that were obscenely vulgar, far too sordid for even the coarsest drunken discussion with one of the boys at camp; did she have freckles, besides the scant ones that sprayed her cheeks? Did her mouth taste the way she smelled, like jasmine and hickory? How did it look, to see her hanging over you, her hair in her face, her thighs tight against yours? Did her expression change when a man was inside her? Did she make sounds, in the throes of her pleasure? Or was she silent, breathing hard, biting her lip, drinking in her lover's expressions? Did she -?

"Are you okay?"

Arthur was jolted from his long thoughts by her gentle voice. "What? Yeah, I'm fine, why?"

"I can feel your heart, that's all."

Arthur shifted a little. "You can?"

"Yeah, it's pounding." Rane placed a hand on his chest, pressing her palm against his shirt. She looked up at him, pulling her head away from the shelf of his chin to do so. "Am I making you nervous?"

“No.” Arthur cocked his head, smiling. “Alright, a little bit.”

“You want me to -?”

“No. No, I like ya just fine where you’re at.” Arthur pulled her a little closer to him. “Warm up. It’s alright.”

"You scared of me or something?" Rane watched his expression, smiling a little. The way her eyes tilted up at the corners when she did was crippling.

“Well, I won’t say I ain’t a little bit skittish of ya.” There it was, the gruff, surly ain’t-afraid-of-nothing voice again. “I seen you wipe a man’s mind clear out this mornin’, in case you forgot. This feels a little bit like neckin' a viper.”

"Who said anything about _necking_?" said Rane, laughing.

"Nobody!"

" _You_ just did!"

"It was a metaphor, you goddamned idiot -"

"Oh, excuse me, I didn't realize your sense of humor was so sophisticated."

Her hand was still resting on his chest, and she made as if to pull it away, but Arthur placed his own over hers when she did, pressing it back against his skin. The rest of this mess could have been excused reasonably enough as a plain old pragmatic good faith gesture with no underlying impetus, even the way he'd moved his hand up and down her back, but this . . . this could not. Rane knew it; he could see it as soon as he looked into her eyes.

"I told ya, I like ya where you are," Arthur muttered, watching her.

Rane looked at him for another long moment, her breathing a little quicker. Arthur was heartened to see it, and a little emboldened. He leaned up on one elbow, looking down at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Are _you_ nervous?" he asked her, very low, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. "Bein' so close to me?"

"I'm not nervous," Rane breathed, watching his eyes. "Do I seem nervous?"

"A little bit, yeah."

"Well I'm not."

"You're breathin' like you just ran a half mile."

Rane scoffed softly. "What exactly are you trying to say, Mister Morgan?"

Arthur watched her a moment, then reached up and ran his fingers from her throat to her collarbone and then up again, slow and gentle, watching her eyes as he did. She sighed roughly at his touch, as if unable to help it, her brows contracting.

"Honey, you look like you got somethin' else on your mind," Arthur murmured. "You wanna tell me what it is?"

She was panting a little now, something she was clearly trying to conceal. "Arthur . . ."

The sound of his name coming from her mouth, so near to him he could feel the heat of her breath, was the final straw, washing the rest of his willpower neatly away. He leaned down and pressed his mouth against hers, his breath coming harsh out of his nose as he did, one hand going to her cheek. He let his eyes fall shut, relishing her lips against his, feeling the gentle press of her tongue moving tentatively against his own, the taste of her lovely and strong, like lavender and oregano. She drew back after a moment, looking up at him with lidded eyes, her breath coming fast.

"Oh, man," she said hoarsely.

"I don't know why I did that," Arthur breathed, feeling his heart racing beneath his shirt. "I'm sorry. I am. I didn't mean no disrespect."

Rane shook her head, placing her hand on his cheek and running her thumb over his lower lip. It was a strange gesture, and almost maddeningly carnal, and Arthur felt his heart hammer harder still beneath his shirt.

"Arthur, I want you pretty bad, maybe you should know," Rane murmured in a rush, still breathing hard, her eyes on his. "I don't know if I should be this close to you."

"I think you're right, it's a damn bad idea," Arthur agreed, low, his mouth hovering before hers, his breath hot against her lips. "You move away first."

Rane gazed up at him, still panting, then leaning up on her elbows pressed her mouth against his hard. Arthur could not quite bring himself to continue with his brusque front, much though he might have liked to. He exhaled roughly, his brow furrowing, rolling over her and curling one arm around the small of her back, pressing her into him. He could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest, rolling rapidly with her quickening breath, and let loose a low moan that echoed in the little cave. Rane responded to it at once, placing her hand on the back of his neck and pulling his mouth to hers. He liked the way she tasted more than he cared to admit. Above them, the thunder rolled once more, loud and close. The rain continued to fall, and one of the horses loosed a long, throaty whinny.

"Rane -"

"Hush."

She was yanking her jeans down, her mouth still on his, not bothering with fanfare, and Arthur felt one of her hands straying to his belt, pulling at it with surprising strength. He could feel an erection so full it was almost painful pressing against his fly, and groaned deep in his throat as the fabric pulled against him, breaking out in gooseflesh helplessly. Christ, what a mess.

“We ought not do somethin’ foolish,” he said, knowing full well that his words held absolutely no water at this point. He’d spent the whole damn day pretending he wasn’t spellbound by her, and the floodgates had been flung wide. “We ought not be foolish, Rane -”

“I've been thinking about this all day,” said Rane, and from her harsh breath and the low, sultry lilt of her voice Arthur could tell that she indeed wanted this just as badly as he did. It renewed his urgency, making his movements almost desperate. He felt a sharp, almost insurmountable need for her, something he’d not experienced in a lot of days. “I haven't stopped thinking about y-”

Rane’s words devolved into a long, low moan of surprise. Arthur had slid a hand between her legs and placed his palm gently over her, pressing down, his touch firm and seasoned. She stiffened beneath his weight, her thighs tensing. Arthur’s mouth was on hers, his breath hot against her lips. Rane looked up into his eyes, her hazel on his blue, her brows knit, liking the greedy way his eyes were roving over her face. He relished the warmth of her, the wetness, letting his index finger explore the folds there, trying not to seem ravenous and seeming that way anyways, his motions jerking and strong, almost frantic. He could barely control himself, feeling the dampness there, feeling the tight, pulsating heat ( _because of me_ , his mind raved, _she's wet because of me_ ) and he felt the pressure between his own legs growing insurmountable, his heart thumping wildly beneath his shirt, his breath coming hot and fast in his throat, as if he could not snatch enough oxygen out of the air.

“We’re gonna live to regret this, you know,” he growled, low, still panting.

"You want to stop?" Rane was panting, too, her eyes wide and fixed on his. "Huh?"

Arthur shook his head, breathing heavily.

“Then shut up and fuck me, Arthur,” said Rane roughly, and leaning forward kissed him hard.

Arthur moaned low and long in his throat at this, completely undone. It was the point of no return, and he sailed past it with abandon. He was fumbling with his jeans, and a moment later Rane felt the full length of him spring out, hard as cut diamond and pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat. He pressed it against her, one hand grasping himself tightly, tracing her up and down, delighting in her wetness, and Rane moaned again, helpless to stop herself.

“You’re gonna spook the horses,” Arthur murmured into the cup of Rane’s ear, lifting gooseflesh along her arms.

“They’ll get over it,” Rane gasped, pulling his belt loops toward her. She felt him buck his hips a little as he pressed into her, a knee-jerk reaction as involuntary as his breath, and felt a little rush of excitement alight her, running up through her nerves like a bolt of electricity. “You’ve got me a little bit hot and bothered, Arthur -”

“I can see that,” Arthur murmured, kissing her neck gently, his face rough against her skin. His free hand had strayed beneath her shirt and pressed on her chest, much as she’d done to him a few moments before, her heart pounding hard and fast beneath his palm. "Beating awfully quick."

"I can't help it."

“The heart can’t lie.”

Rane looked up at him, and he met her eyes, his brow glimmering with sweat despite the cold. The rock was hard and cool beneath her, the storm still raging outside, but she was suddenly overcome with a curious sensation of safety beneath his gaze.

“I guess not.”

“You sure ‘bout this? It ain’t too late to -”

Rane did not answer, only reached down and guided him into her. His face stilled, falling lax with ecstasy, and he exhaled harshly, his breath shaking.

“Oh, _hell_ ,” he murmured, looking down at her, his eyes soft.

“Go slow,” whispered Rane, and reaching up took his face in her hands, looking into his eyes. Arthur stared back down at her, moving gently against every instinct to hasten his pace, the long muscles of his thighs tensing and relaxing with his cadence. “Please, just got slow, I want to last it out.”

“Oh, honey, I’m tryin’ to. God, it's hard, you're so damn beautiful.”

"You feel so good," Rane murmured, her eyes flicking over his features. She loosed a long, whistling sigh as he thrust into her. "Arthur. Oh, God. Please, just go slow."

Neither of them made it long; Arthur could feel himself edging toward his climax, and the sight of her beneath him, both hands cradling his face, looking flushed and utterly gorgeous, made the desire to drive into her almost imperative, beyond his mastery. His hips began to hasten.

“Say my name,” he murmured, his voice low, hesitant to ask for it. “Please say it. Lemme hear it.”

Rane pulled his face to hers, placing her lips to the hollow of his ear, her breath hot on his skin. When she spoke, her voice was husky, rough and beautiful.

“Arthur. Arthur. _Arthur_.”

The wave of desire that washed over him at this was huge, so powerful he felt faint, and Arthur placed a hand beneath the small of her back, moaning helplessly, drawing her near to him, his heart hammering in his chest, looking down into her eyes. He drove into her, his movements quickening, holding her close to him. Overhead, the thunder rolled again.

“Ain’t long now, darlin’, I’m sorry for it -”

Rane could feel the rushing approach of her own climax and grasped his face in her hands again.

“Look at me, Arthur, I'm so close.”

He did, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes locked on hers, and she thrust her hips into him hard, feeling the rough fabric of his jeans against her thighs and the firm, trembling length of him inside her, and it happened quickly for both of them in that moment. He stiffened, not throwing himself away from her like most of the men Rane had been with did. Instead, he drew her close, pulling her to him, looking into her eyes squarely, seeing her in all her fullness, and she stared back at him, startled by the presence in his gaze. He was seeing her as she was, and it made her feel strange, almost alien in his arms.

Arthur’s orgasm swept through him smoothly, taking him over from toe to head, and he clutched Rane to himself, his eyes watching hers, gasping. It was brief, as they always were for him, and in a moment he was collapsing onto her, his heart racing, his mouth on her throat, tasting the salt of her sweat.

“Oh, honey,” he murmured, and Rane shuddered beneath him as the last spasms passed through him inside her. “Oh, lord.”

He rolled off of her, still clutching her, and Rane turned to him, pulling his body to her. She pressed her mouth into his, gentle. He relished the taste of her, closing his arms around her, warm and near. The smell of her was close and good, sweat and adrenaline. She settled herself into the hollow of his shoulder, her hand exploring his chest beneath his shirt, and he kissed her temple gently, still breathing quickly.

"Oh, _nooo_ ," Arthur groaned, placing an exaggerated hand over his eyes. "What the hell'd I do now?"

" _What_?"

“That was just about the stupidest thing I’ve done all day,” Arthur muttered at length.

“It wasn’t stupid,” said Rane. Overhead, another crash of thunder rolled, growing more distant. The three horses lifted their ears to the heavens. “Stop saying that.”

“If you say so,” said Arthur.

Rane leaned up and kissed his mouth, tender. “Shut up. Just lay with me a little bit. It isn’t dark yet.”

Arthur relaxed against her, liking her warmth, and despite himself he found himself threading his fingers through hers, feeling pleasantly sleepy. He’d have to deal with this at some point, of course, but now wasn’t that time. Now was for enjoying her closeness, and resting.

Thinking this, he fell asleep amidst the rain, his lips on her temple, holding her as close as a lover.


	10. The Fence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur tries to reconcile with the day's events

_Shadows settle on the place that you left_   
_Our minds are troubled by the emptiness_   
_Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time_   
_From the perfect start to the finish line._   
_And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones_   
_'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs_   
_Setting fire to our insides for fun_   
_Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong_   
_The lovers that went wrong._

**\- Daughter**

_________________________

When Arthur Morgan woke again at dusk, Rane Roth was still nestled against him, one hand curled against her chest and the other laced through his. He got up on one elbow, and for a moment he simply stared down at her, utterly bewildered to see her there.

Then, slowly, the memory of that afternoon returned to him in a rush, and he felt an unblunted sting of shame wash over him. He ran a hand down his face, groaning low in his throat.

“Arthur Morgan, you are a _god damned_ idiot,” he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. The sound of his voice roused Rane, who opened her eyes and looked up at him, for a moment clearly as utterly confused as he had been himself. Then, as realization dawned in her face, she scrambled back from him.

Their eyes met and they looked at one another for a few seconds, both quite tongue-tied.

"Uh." Rane cleared her throat.

“Sun’s down, we oughta get movin’,” said Arthur, getting to his feet brusquely and dusting his jeans off. Rane got up too, buttoning her belt, not looking at him. Arthur stamped out the last of the fire’s embers with the toe of his boot and bending scooped up his hat, cramming it onto his head. He strode outside toward the horses, who were getting laboriously up, sensing that it was time to go. Rane followed, buckling her sheathed sword around her lean waist, watching the back of him a trifle shamefacedly.

“Is it far? The fence?” she asked, pulling the chestnut stallion’s bridle down and leading him away from the tree where he’d been hitched.

“Just about. A couple miles east.” Arthur swung his leg over the white mare and wheeled her around, clicking his tongue. He still wasn’t looking at her, and his hat was pulled low despite the growing darkness. The storm had mostly abated, and the clear evening sky was visible in the gaps between the clouds, indigo and twinkling with stars. “You keep that stallion outta the mud if you can, these fellers like to fleece over just about anything.”

Rane followed him as he broke the mare into a trot, casting a final glance backwards at the little cave they’d shared. Distantly, the last of the thunder sounded, low and rumbling, probably miles off by now.

  
  


ARTHUR was grimly silent as they rode east, the horses picking up the trail easily enough. Rane, never one to wriggle out of confrontation, cleared her throat pointedly at last, spurring the stallion on until she was pacing him. She saw his eyes cut sideways at her very briefly beneath the low-drawn rim of his hat before setting his gaze ahead, his mouth thin and his shoulders rigid.

“So are we just gonna pretend that didn’t happen, or what?” she said at last.

Arthur felt his face flush a little. “What, back there, you mean?” he asked, as if she might be alluding to literally anything else.

“Yeah, I mean back there,” said Rane dryly.

Arthur set his jaw, pulling the brim of his hat down a little further. Much lower and he'd be wearing it like a balaclava. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”

"Really? Because I think there's a lot to talk about," said Rane steadily.

Arthur said nothing, only continued to stare ahead toward the trail, his hips rocking with his horse's cadence. Rane watched his profile, unrelenting.

"You made me wonder what was going through your head a couple times back there."

"Well, 'why' is a crooked letter that can't be made straight," said Arthur gruffly, "so maybe you ought not try."

"You didn't feel anything else?" Rane asked him baldly, getting right to the point.

"I felt me whitewashin' your kidneys, sure."

Rane wasn't dissembled by this stab at humor. " _Nothing_? Just wham-bam-thankya-ma'am?"

"Ain't it awkward enough without you pickin' it apart, huh?" Arthur asked her bluntly, casting her a vexed look. " _Christ_!"

“You’re upset with me.”

“I ain’t upset with ya. I’m upset with myself.”

Rane felt a cramp of unhappiness. “Thanks a lot.”

“It ain’t like that.”

“What’s it like, then?”

"What the hell you think?" Arthur said, flapping a hand impatiently. "John Marston's my brother, Miss Roth, and that wasn't a very brotherly thing to do, back there -"

“Oh, get _fucked_ , Arthur!” Rane cried, stung.

“Well, seein’ as how I’m a goddamned fool and already _done_ that once today!” Arthur snapped, his voice rising angrily, looking longways at her finally. “I guess I ain't feelin' so great about how these past two days me and him, we been to a lot of the same damn places!”

Rane reached over and yanked on the white mare’s bridle, pulling it from Arthur’s loose grip, and yanking her to a rough, stamping stop, heeling the chestnut stallion as well. He recoiled, glaring at her.

“The _hell_ are you -?”

“Listen to me, Arthur,” said Rane. Her words were low and calm, but the sudden fury in her eyes was fierce, palpable, seeming to bake off of her. This wasn’t the gentle, jesting woman he had lain with a few hours before, all soft fingertips and warm skin and tender eyes; this creature was dangerous, an unpredictable predator who would part your head from your shoulders without breaking a sweat and sleep just as soundly for it. When she spoke, her voice was baleful and deadly. “I guess you don’t know me so well after just a couple of days, so let me make something a little more clear before we go another step down this road: you insult me at your peril, and I’m not in the least bit afraid to show you how I mean. You understand what I’m saying?”

Arthur stared at her from beneath the brim of his hat, his mouth downturned, then jerked the mare’s reins roughly from her grasp. One of his hands strayed to the butt of his pistol.

“I think maybe you don't know me too good yet either, Miss Roth, if you feel like you can talk to me that way,” he said quietly, looking squarely into her eyes. It was difficult - like staring into the sun - but he bore it nonetheless. He meant to make sure she knew what was what. “And before you start gettin' all rakish lemme remind you that if it weren’t for me, you’da spent a night as a Pinkerton plaything followed by a short trip down a ravine, like as not, and I don’t take too kindly to bein’ threatened, especially after all that. There’re plenty of bodies buried in these hills what would attest to that if they could.”

Rane stared at him a moment longer, her eyes bright and predatory beneath her dark brows, as still and meditative as a cougar ready to spring. Arthur stared back at her, unflinching, well aware that this might be his only chance to establish this accord between them. If he flagged, he’d lose, come what may, and for all his bluster he had seen how fast she was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out how it felt to be on the wrong side of her.

It was Rane who buckled first, and he was glad to see it. She sighed roughly, breaking their gaze, turning back to the road and snapping the reins with a flourish.

“That’s not the kind of shit anybody wants to hear four hours after the fact, is all,” she said, and just like that it was gone, and she was just a tall, pretty girl with dark hair and a filthy pair of boots riding at his side. Arthur urged the mare on, feeling his heartbeat running along quickly in his chest. Say what you will about her, she was scary as hell when she showed her teeth like that. He wondered if the Pinkertons had suspected it when they’d found her and trussed her up. “Kinda stings a little bit.”

“Well, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Arthur said, trying to sound gruff. _That’s a lie_ , he realized abruptly, surprised. _You’re jealous Marston had her, damned if you ain’t. And here’s something else I bet you don’t want to hear, Arthur Morgan . . . you like her. Just as much as John does, like as not. Hell, why not just say it like it is, you’re halfway to being in love with her already, and all that rolling around back there only made it worse. There’s apt to be trouble for it, and you’ll deserve every bit that comes your way._

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rane was saying, looking a little insulted.

“Don’t go gettin’ your hackles all up again, now,” said Arthur, lifting his palms. Rane cast him an amused grin, and if there had been any remaining tension between them it was dispersed in that moment. “And don’t get me wrong, I liked it just fine. But I ain’t so sure John’s gonna be too happy if he knew, so maybe, y’know, we ought not squat on our spurs, if you take me.”

Rane looked at Arthur speculatively from the stallion’s withers, her eyes narrowed.

“Are you married or something?” she asked him at last.

“No, Rane, I ain’t _married_.” Arthur glanced aslant at her, looking grimly amused. “Look, it ain’t nothin’ like that, okay? Honest. I just don’t want to cause that boy any more grief. I’m tellin’ ya, that’s all.”

“I think you’re overblowing how much he gives a shit, but if you say so, mum’s the word,” said Rane wryly. “He’s probably forgotten all about it by now.”

“Yeah, don’t be so sure, men are goddamned fools sometimes about women,” Arthur replied, chuckling dryly. “Don’t I ever just know it.”

“Well,” said Rane fairly, her eyes on the trail ahead and her voice easy, “thanks for keeping me warm.”

"Don't mention it."

Arthur felt a grin rise to his face and lifted a hand to hide it, scratching at his cheek and clearing his throat gruffly. For a moment his mind presented him with the image of Rane lying beneath him, her thighs tense beneath his jeans, her eyes on his amidst the thunderstorm raging outside and the sensation of her heart beating quickly beneath the hand he’d placed on her chest, and he felt a wave of desire rise in his belly, strong and unbidden. He adjusted himself a little on his saddle, glancing sidelong to see if Rane had noticed this, but for once her eyes were ahead, drawn by something in the gloom.

“Is that it?” she asked, pointing.

Arthur squinted. “You got a pair of eyes like a hawk, girl. I believe it is, yeah.”

“Guess this is the end of the line, boy,” said Rane sadly, patting the chestnut stallion’s muscular neck. He whickered gently at her touch, ears swiveling. “I hate to see the back of you.”

“These two fellers ain’t the nicest, I oughta warn ya,” said Arthur, kicking the mare into a canter. “I’d just as soon get this over with so we can head back to camp. Just let me do the talkin’.”

“How the hell are we going to both get back?” Rane asked, suddenly realizing they’d be down to one horse in a few minutes.

“Easy. I’m gonna take that nag behind us and you’re gonna ride shank’s pony.”

Rane looked at Arthur for a long moment, trying to decide if he was joking. In the end he couldn’t keep a straight face and burst out laughing. Rane swatted at him, grinning.

“You asshole.”

“Ah God, you shoulda seen your face.” Arthur slapped his knee. “No wonder Marston likes ya so damn much, you’re just about his intellectual equal -”

Rane steered the stallion closer to Arthur’s mare, causing her to buck a little. Arthur grasped at his hat in alarm.

“Alright, alright, hell,” he said, still laughing. “Quit foolin’ around and listen a tick. I’m gonna get these horses sold and then you’re gonna ride back-to with me. Now hush a minute while I talk to these fellers.”

They were drawing near to the fence now. There were two men standing watch at its gate, one leaning at his leisure against an ancient-looking wagon, the other sitting on the fence itself, the glow of a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Arthur rode up, climbing off the white mare and leading her, and Rane followed suit.

“Well, would ya look at what the cat dragged in?” the man on the fence remarked, hopping down with a thud. “Arthur Morgan, as I live and breathe.”

“Need to move a couple,” Arthur said, his voice low. “And I’d just as soon make it kinda fast, gentlemen.”

“Why, you ain’t keen on our company?” the man on the wagon called, and cackled.

“They’re thoroughbreds,” Arthur said, ignoring this last. “Braithwaite stock.”

The man with the cigarette inspected the mare critically, moving his hands over her withers.

“And that they are,” he said. He paused, stroking his chin. “I’ll give ya a hunnert each. Hunnert-ten if ya throw in the tack”

Rane had expected Arthur to dicker a little bit, but he surprised her by agreeing at once to this. It was clear he really was itching to get out of dodge.

“You got yourself a deal, mister,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.

The man near the wagon was striding forward and presently took the reins of each horse in his hand, leading them toward the fence. Rane watched the chestnut stallion thudding away with a pang of regret. She’d liked that horse. Meanwhile, Arthur was accepting a stack of bills which he counted quickly, his mouth moving silently, then crammed into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Much obliged,” he muttered, turning away and climbing onto the back of the remaining horse briskly. He offered Rane a hand up and she clambered behind him.

“You hang on tight to me, now,” Arthur told her brusquely, but when she placed her arms around his waist, squeezing her into his back, he was amused to feel another little swoop of pleasure at her nearness. “We’re gonna ride hard and get back before it gets to be too on. Camp ain’t too far, might be half an hour or so. You good for it?”

“Never better.”

“Good to hear. _Ya_!” He snapped the reins and the horse broke into a gallop, hooves flying beneath them, whinnying.

  
  


THEY rode back to camp in silence save for the thudding of hoofbeats on the muddy earth and the snorting breath of their steed. The moon was riding high in the sky now, the last of the storm clouds dispersing, and the world was cast in its soft, tranquil light.

At some point, while they rode past the banks of Mattis Pond, Rane lay her head against Arthur’s back, her arms still wound tightly around him, and for Arthur it was all over right then. There were moments later when he tried to deny it, to himself as well as to others, but it was a losing battle from that moment onward. He felt the bloom of heat in his chest, felt the way his heart seemed to swell within him, and was aware that in the space of those few seconds he’d fallen in love with her, like it or not. The idea of it frightened him badly, and he kept his tongue behind his teeth, not daring to speak a word to her. Because if he did, she’d hear it in his voice, and then there would be worse trouble. Better not to speak of such things. Better not to let her know. Bad enough that he did.

_You’re angling for trouble if you don’t stamp this right out_ , he thought grimly. _You don’t know no such thing, you’re just riding the high, is all, same as any man. She’s a stranger, and if you’re smart you'll let her stay that way._

Nonetheless, one of his gloved hands crept up and curled around hers as they rode, holding it tight against his chest.


	11. Rane and Arthur meet Dutch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a discussion about the day's events

_Day gives way to night_   
_On the storefront mannequins_   
_The audience with Mona Lisa grins_   
_Moonlight builds emotion_   
_As the players scuttle in_   
_Pull the curtain back and let the show begin._

\- **Puscifer**

_____________________

Dutch, Sadie and John were sitting around the fire when they rode in, all three passing a bottle of whiskey around. Rane hopped lithely off the horse, dusting her jeans off, approaching them as Arthur hitched the horse. John, who’d been staring moodily into the fire with his arms folded, spotted them first, his face breaking into a broad, pleased grin. The effect was instantaneous and dramatic, making him painfully handsome in the flickering firelight.

“There she is!” he said, spreading his arms. “‘Bout damn time!”

“Ah, the prodigal son returns!” Dutch cried heartily, gesturing at Arthur, who was striding toward them as well, pulling off his riding gloves and stowing them into his pocket. “Both of you, come on over here, take a seat. I want to hear all about it.”

Sadie was watching Rane with clear dislike over the whiskey bottle, and when Rane took a seat around the fire she got up and shoved it into Arthur’s chest roughly.

“Lost my appetite for it all of a sudden,” she murmured, stalking off. Rane watched her back diminish into the darkness, uneasy.

“She’ll come ‘round, don’t you worry,” said John reassuringly.

“Yeah, ol’ Missus Adler - well, I guess she ain’t a Missus no more, come to think of it,” said Dutch, frowning. He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, looking at Rane solemnly. “Bunch of O’Driscoll boys slaughtered her husband, while back. She’s still comin’ around.”

Rane, who knew all too well how that felt, shook her head sympathetically. “Christ, that’s awful.”

“That’s the way of the world, sometimes,” said Dutch grimly. “No one knows it better than me.”

“So how’d you two get on?” John asked, looking at Arthur.

Arthur had sat Sadie’s whiskey down with a clink and taken a seat silently on the other side of the fire - as far from Rane as he could possibly get, in other words - and when he looked up at John, hands dangling between his knees, Rane realized with a surge of apprehension that this guy was absolute shite at keeping a poker face. No wonder he’d already opted to keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, fair to midland,” he replied, trying to sound offhanded. “Ran into a little spot of trouble on the plantation, but we managed. Lost that little black mare of Bill’s, though, I’m afraid.”

“He ain’t gonna be happy to hear that,” said John, casting a look backwards toward the darkened camp. It was relatively quiet, but Rane could smell the scent of burning cigarettes, and someone was strumming a guitar and singing in a low voice. Javier, maybe.

“What kinda trouble?” Dutch asked, ignoring John and looking at Arthur with interest.

Arthur shifted his weight, patting his breast pocket and pulling out a pack of smokes. “I tell ya what, Dutch, Marston here got one thing right, that girl sure is nice to have in a pinch.”

John threw Rane a smile which she returned, feeling a little embarrassed. “See there, didn’t I tell ya?”

“We got to the barn,” Arthur went on, smoking. “Round ‘bout four of ‘em - all about fallin’ over themselves tryin’ to get an eyeful, mind ya,” Arthur added, smirking at Rane, who flushed, rolling her eyes. “I was gonna bust ‘em in the head, but instead . . . well, hell, I ain’t sure just _what_ happened, it was so goddamn fast -”

“I Stup - er, I stunned them,” Rane explained, glancing at Dutch. “Not lethal, just kind of knocks you out for a little while.”

“Yep, that’s the one. Three outta four went down that way, then the last one ended up bound with rope. Now I was a little worried ‘bout that last feller, because he’d seen our faces, but she wiped out his memory. You could tell just lookin’ at him he didn’t have a clue on God’s green earth who we was or what we was doin’ there.”

“Incredible,” Dutch breathed, shaking his head. “Just incredible.”

“Yep. And that was that. Drew a little fire ridin’ outta there - that’s when the little mare bought it, poor old thing - and this one here knocked all the ones shootin’ on their asses.” Arthur waved a hand before his chest to demonstrate. “Nobody got killed, and I don’t think nobody followed us. We hunkered down for the day just to be sure, of course, didn’t wanna have nobody tailin’ us back here.”

John’s smile faltered a little bit at this. “Hunkered down?”

Arthur looked up at him quickly, the smoke still dangling from his lower lip. The motion dislodged his cigarette and he fumbled at it, spraying sparks, as it fell to the dirt at his feet. Rane had another moment to mourn his discretion; the guy had all the deadpan of a billboard.

“Well, yeah!” he said gruffly, stamping out the smoke beneath his boot and brushing the ashes off his knees, face slightly pink. “Ain’t no sense rushin’ off to the fence if we had a couple Braithwaites on our asses, is there?”

“I would have done the same damn thing,” Dutch agreed. “Anyway, Arthur, you got our earnings? All this excitement, forgot to ask . . .”

Clearly happy for this change of topic, Arthur dug into his jeans pocket, leaning forward to access it, and handed Dutch the stack of bills. Dutch took them with clear relish, counting them quickly under his breath.

“Well, when the hell’d you get to the fence?” John asked. He was still looking at Arthur, definitely suspicious now. Rane had never felt more out of place in a conversation all her life.

“Hell, I dunno, dusk, I guess.”

“You’re tellin’ me you spent the whole damn day hid out when you coulda got them horses sold and been back here?”

“What the hell’s the difference?” Arthur asked, bristling. “Christ, I don't have a damn curfew, John -”

“Two-twenty was all you could get?” Dutch asked, looking at Arthur over the cash in his hands a little irritably. “For a couple _thoroughbreds_? Come on, now Arthur -”

“Hell, I was expectin’ them to try and take me for ten a pop, Dutch, I think two-twenty ain’t halfway bad.” Arthur was fumbling with another cigarette, not looking at John, who was still watching him, eyes narrow. “I hate dickerin’ with those two, they’re about as crooked as a dog’s hind leg -”

“Well, that may be the case,” said Dutch firmly, “but I didn’t ask you to go out there so you could have a good time, I sent ya to make a score, and I was hopin’ for a trifle more than -”

“You hear that, Arthur? You were supposed to get a couple horses sold, not have a good time,” said John coarsely. “Maybe you oughta try and stick to your goddamn job next time.”

“Marston, I sure as hell ain’t wild about the way you’re carrying on over there, I’m warnin’ you,” Arthur said, his voice rising a touch, giving John a hard look.

“Well there’s a couple things I ain’t so _wild_ about either, Morgan -!”

“The hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

"I think you know goddamn good and _well_ what it -"

“Boys, BOYS!” Dutch roared. Rane flinched. Arthur and John both turned to him. “That’s enough outta each of you, now, you’re givin’ me a goddamn headache."

“Yeah, I ain’t feelin’ so great myself.” John said roughly, getting to his feet. “I’m goin’ into Saint Denis, think I gotta taste for a drink.”

“Take Sadie with ya, she needs a hiatus,” said Dutch at once. “And take Miss Roth here, too, celebrate her first bill and give her and Sadie a chance to pal around.”

Rane personally thought Sadie Adler would rather lick a cheese grater than pal around with her, and John didn’t look like he was terribly eager, either. He was scratching the back of his neck, watching Dutch, his brow furrowed, looking just as reticent. Rane felt a dismal little sinking in her belly at the sight of it; he didn’t want her around right now, that much was clear. The guilt that rose in her chest at the sight of his pointed evasion of her gaze was sharper than she’d expected.

“Dutch, come on, I kinda wanna get off on my own for a little -”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Arthur muttered, “you’re good at that, after all, ain't ya -?”

“Shut the HELL up, Arthur!” John was almost shouting now, his lips pulled back into a snarl. “I swear to God I’ll come over there and -!”

“BOYS!” Dutch said loudly again, and this time there was genuine anger in his eyes. “That’s _enough_ , I said! John, take her and Sadie and get goin’!”

Arthur and John fell sullenly silent, glaring at one another. Dutch plucked Rane’s hand from her lap and planted a few bills in her palm. She looked up at him, bewildered.

"What's this for?"

Dutch closed her fingers around the cash. “That’s your cut. You go and get yourself a few drinks with John and Sadie, they’re gonna be workin’ close alongside you. Best you get to know ‘em.”

“So you’re letting me stay?”

“Darlin’,” said Dutch, “I’d have it no other way.”

“Thank you.” Rane looked into his eyes, meaning it. “Really."

“It is my pleasure, and there are no thanks necessary. Go on now and do as I say. Arthur, I wanna talk to you and Hosea in his tent. And John, you get a move on. _Now_ ,” he added as John looked mutinous. “Get goin’ boy, don’t sass me no more. I ain’t in the mood.”

John looked at Rane, who was still sitting by the fire.

“Well, come on, then,” he muttered, looking irritated.

Rane rose and followed him, feeling profoundly out of place. Arthur, feeling almost as displaced, rose with a grunt and strode after Dutch toward Hosea’s abode, feeling his eyes drawn back toward the diminishing form of the woman he’d shared the day with.

ARTHUR followed Dutch into his tent, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking over his shoulder frequently at Rane. She’d started toward the horses hitched near the camp’s entry, looking extraordinarily uncertain, and he didn’t blame her - she was without a mount now that Bill’s mare had been offed. John had slouched off toward Sadie’s tent, his shoulders hunched, leaving her untended.

“She’s gonna be just fine,” Dutch said, following his gaze. “Hell, you just got done tellin’ us how good she was in a pinch -”

“Yeah, but she don’t know nothin’ _about_ this goddamn place, she’s likely feelin’ out of sorts!” Arthur muttered. He cast a dire glance toward John Marston, whose lean form was profiled against the light emanating from Sadie’s tent some ways off. “Why’d you send her off with John and Sadie like that, Dutch? You saw how surly he was actin’ -”

“Arthur Morgan, if I wanna send her to goddamn Timbuktu, that’s where she’ll go,” said Dutch shortly. “Hosea, you in there? Mind if we come have a word?”

“Please do,” Hosea’s voice came from inside. Dutch pulled the tent open and bowed Arthur elaborately inside.

“After you, your Highness.”

Arthur ducked inside, still scowling, and planted himself on a crate near the entrance. Hosea was reclining near the back on his bunk, dog-earing the spot in his book and setting it gently down on the mattress. Dutch leaned against the post holding up the far end of the tent, crossing his feet before him, arms folded. The gold on his lapels glittered in the low lamplight.

“So? How’d we make out?” Hosea asked.

“Ahh, not too bad,” said Arthur. “Couple bills, at least.”

“Run into trouble?”

“Well, that all depends on what you’d call trouble,” said Dutch, looking at Arthur.

Arthur held his gaze a moment, trying to discern him, but as always, Dutch was quite inscrutable, even for a man as acute as Arthur. Karen, of all people, had hit the nail on the head one evening better than anyone else ever had, all the while in her cups; she’d said, _That Van Der Linde is like a tomcat, just as likely to purr and rub on you as he is to rare up and claw you silly, and there’s just no way to tell which one it’s apt to be, likely not even for him_.

“Alright, whatever _that_ means,” he said at last. “Nah, Hosea, we didn’t have much of it. Pretty clean, at least by our standards.”

“And the young girl, with all the fancy tricks? How’d she fare?”

Arthur ran a hand over his face, his stubble rasping against his palm. “Well, I just got done tellin’ Dutch this, but . . . she’s good. Scary as hell, I ain’t gonna lie, but good. Better’n anybody I ever seen. Dropped four men in about five seconds, Hosea. There ain’t no slack in that girl’s rope, that’s for damn sure.” He paused, pensive. “I dunno whether she’s what she says she is, but _boy_ . . . you shoulda seen it, I’m tellin’ you. Marston wasn’t lyin’.”

Hosea was stroking his chin, watching Arthur thoughtfully. “I still ain’t convinced she’s not just having us all on,” he said at last. “I know Dutch here thinks the sun shines out of her every orifice already -”

“I think no such thing,” Dutch cut in, looking resentful. “I just know an opportunity when I spot it, that’s all.”

“Yes, well.” Hosea crossed his arms over his thin chest. “Any fool can make a lightshow and hoodwink a bunch of fools who don’t know any better. And all I saw was a lightshow, myself -”

“What about her hooking those bullets?” said Dutch, shifting impatiently. “Hosea, you said yourself, that takes some skill like we ain’t never seen -”

“Yeah, and she did it again when we were running from the Braithwaites,” Arthur added. “I didn’t even have time to draw. Hell, she didn’t even _look_ , just yanked that thing out and _pow, pow_ .” He made a swinging gesture. “It’s like she knew they were comin’ without even using her goddamned _eyes_ , Hosea -!”

“Well, swordsmanship can be learned just like any skill,” Hosea replied steadily. “And I agree it could be useful to us, certainly . . . it’s flashy, may be a good distraction . . . but the practical aspects of all of this - well, I remain a bit skeptical of -”

“Listen, she spotted a goddamned horseshoe on a wall in a barn from what musta been sixty feet away,” said Arthur flatly. “No specs, no nothin’. Just saw it. How the hell do you explain _that_?”

“She’d been there before, maybe -”

“That is hogshit,” said Dutch stolidly. “You _know_ that’s hogshit, Hosea.”

Hosea sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Arthur could tell he was unconvinced.

“If she sticks around, I believe you’ll see for yourself,” he said, shrugging. “I can’t explain what I saw no other way except that she’s tellin’ it true. There was a moment, today . . .”

Arthur trailed off, trying to decide how to word what he wanted to say next. Dutch and Hosea were eyeing him curiously.

“What moment, Arthur?” said Dutch. The expression on his face was quite like the one he’d worn the evening before, after Rane had shown them her Patronus; impatient, eager, a little greedy. “Come on, son, out with it.”

“Well, I must’ve offended her or something,” said Arthur carefully. He was absolutely not about to disclose why. “She looked at me - reached over, grabbed my horse, stopped me - and Hosea, I tell you what.”

He shook his head, feeling a little daunted at the memory in spite of himself.

“The way she _looked_ at me . . . her _eyes_ . . . boy, I think she coulda leapt over and torn my throat out with her teeth, that face.” He looked at Dutch baldly. “She ain’t afraid of killin’. Not afraid of much of anything, from what I can see. She’s dangerous, Dutch. _Really_ dangerous. Not like you and me are, like . . . like an _animal_ is dangerous. I was halfway sure I was gonna die right then and there, no matter how nice she’d made all day. Didn’t matter how fast I could draw, she was faster and she knew it. Scared the goddamned hell outta me, I ain’t afraid to say. And you know me, I ain’t exactly the jumpy sort.”

Hosea was watching him pensively. “That you ain’t,” he admitted at last. “You think she’s a danger to us, Arthur?”

“No,” said Arthur at once, shaking his head. “No, I know she ain’t.”

“Huh.” Hosea looked a little disquieted. He turned to Dutch. “So I presume you’ve elected to let her stick around even after hearing that, judging by the look you’re wearing..”

Dutch shrugged and nodded. “For the nonce, yeah. That to your liking?”

“Well, I cannot say I’m sold on her yet, but I have to agree with Arthur, I don’t get the notion she’s a bad lady,” Hosea admitted. “Powerful, though . . . yes, I certainly do feel that she is that. Perhaps not to be used lightly. Some guns ought not be fired from the hip, Dutch. You know that.”

Dutch grunted. Hosea gave him a stern look.

“I mean it. You want to weaponize her, I see that, and I see _why_ , Lord knows I do, but you ought to tread soft, is all,” Hosea told him staunchly. “She doesn’t strike me as the sort to be trifled with, even by the likes of you.”

“Well, she ain’t never _met_ the likes of me,” Dutch replied, his voice low. “So we’re just gonna have to see about all that.”

“And you feel she’s trustworthy?” Hosea asked, looking at Arthur. “Truly?”

Arthur shrugged. “Yeah. Hell, to be honest, I like her. Seems like a nice enough girl, after all the strangeness.”

“Ah, yes, well.” Dutch leaned forward, stroking his chin. “There’s that trouble I mentioned, Hosea.”

“What trouble?” asked Arthur.

Dutch looked at Arthur, his mouth curved into a little knowing smirk, rocking back and forth on his boots, saying nothing.

“ _What_?” Arthur shifted his weight on the crate, the wood creaking softly. Outside, the sound of Javier singing gruffly along with his guitar was still audible amidst the crickets. “Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”

“Arthur, I didn’t fall off the wagon yesterday. I saw how you looked at that girl out there.” Dutch folded his arms. “It ain’t the same way you looked at her before you two left to fence those horses, that I will attest to.”

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to -?”

“And I’ll tell you what else I think,” Dutch went on. His voice was infuriatingly knowing. “I think you and her might have maybe gotten to know each other even better than I asked you to. Maybe in the, uh . . . . the _Biblical_ sense, if you take me.”

This was snappy enough to make Hosea laugh in spite of himself. Arthur wasn’t laughing. He continued to glare at Dutch, his face reddening.

“What - well - the hell business is it of yours?” Arthur blurted, feeling inept. He was a shitty liar in the best of circumstances, but lying to Dutch - that was something he’d never been able to do, not even as a boy. “So the hell _what_ if I -?”

“I need you _on your game_ , Arthur, _that’s_ why it’s my business. I need you out in front of it.” Dutch shook a clenched fist before him, his jaw tight. “And I _need that girl_ on her game, too, if we’re ever gonna make enough money to get the hell out of here. _That’s_ why it’s my business. And I cannot have another one of my top boys running off the rails because some girl got into his skull. John was troublesome enough.”

At this last, Arthur’s face fell into an expression of genuine enmity, glaring at Dutch from beneath his brows, his eyes flintlike.

“Look,” he said, and thumbed his chest. “ _I_ ain’t John fuckin’ _Marston_. I ain’t no _fleecing turntail_ , and I ain’t never done you like that, Dutch, not in all the years we been ridin’ together, not on account of a woman or anything else.”

“I know you ain’t,” Dutch said. “But you must see why I worry. I knew the second I saw how pretty she was that she was liable to cause issue, and that's my own fault, but now that the pair of you have both -”

“Don’t you got other business worth thinking about?” Arthur snapped, flaring. “Besides what the hell I get up to in my own time?”

“Oh, Arthur, come _on_ , now!” said Dutch genially, spreading his hands. “I ain’t coming down on you for it! Hell, any man would look at her twice, the girl is a goddamned work of art -!”

“Oh, hell -”

“- but you gotta understand, son, this gang, it’s about chock full of men who are hot to trot any dog-faced whore that strays into their path, let alone a girl as gorgeous as that one is,” Dutch went on, overriding him. “You saw what kinda mischief got kicked up with Abigail while she was makin’ her rounds, Arthur. Surely you can see why I worry.”

Arthur fell begrudgingly silent. This, at least, was a fair point; Abigail had caused many of their number to act a damn fool in the months before she fell in with John, himself included.

“This ain’t nothin’ like that,” he muttered, folding his arms. “Hell, she’s only been here two _days_ , Dutch -!”

“Yeah, and in them two days, a couple of my top boys have already damn near fallen head over heels for her,” Dutch said, giving Arthur a long-suffering look. “And Javier is well on his way, too, listening to the way he’s been goin’ on about her -”

“Sean, too,” Hosea added grimly.

“So what?” Arthur said loudly, casting Dutch an angry look. “So the hell _what_? What’s it to you if he’s sweet on her, or if any of us is? What the hell does it _matter_?”

“Hosea. Back me up here.”

Hosea sighed, massaging his forehead

“Dutch is right, we need to focus on getting outta Lemoyne, not romancing the fairer sex. It compromises a man, Arthur. Hell, you saw what happened with John after Abigail got under his skin, same as any of us did. Men just don’t work as well when a lady is on his mind, is all.”

“Well, I didn’t hear neither one of you getting on _John’s_ case!” Arthur snapped. “You know, he spent a whole goddamned day and _night_ with her, and they -!”

“Well, that’s because John’s young and dumb,” said Dutch. His voice was maddeningly placating. “And you ain’t either one of those things, Arthur. If he keeps up, he’ll get a talking-to same as you.” He leaned forward, his eyes hard on Arthur’s. “ _I need that girl_ , Arthur, and I need her whole and able to work. And not fucked in the head by a couple of lovesick fellers angling for her affections.”

Arthur stood abruptly, knocking Hosea’s shaving mirror askance with a clang.

“I’m goin’ to bed,” he said roughly.

With this he tore open the tent flap and strode out, his boots thudding away in the dirt. Hosea and Dutch eyed one another for a moment.

“Could have been a little gentler,” said Hosea at length.

“Shit,” said Dutch, sighing. “There’s just no good way to go about this, Hosea. One of ‘em is gonna get hurt. Both of ‘em like as not. And that girl . . . I need her to be on top of it. John or Arthur getting her all amorous, it ain’t going to go the way I want. Plain and simple.”

“Well, Dutch,” said Hosea, low, “people ain’t pawns, and it’d do you good to remember. And you know how Arthur is with John. You just tread soft.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Dutch, and sighed. He rose to his feet. “I pray they’ll figure it out.”

“They will,” said Hosea. “One way or another.”


	12. The Saloon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sadie take Rane out for a few drinks to celebrate the success of the fenced horses

_O Mr. High-Roller where you gonna go?_   
_Where the real high-rollin' rollers roll real dough_   
_Hey Mr. Killer-Man what you gonna do?_   
_Me and Mr. Death are going downtown too_   
_Ain't there one God-fearing citizen about?_   
_They're all holed up and they ain't comin' out_

\- **Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds**

_________________________

“Aw, hell. You _must_ be fuckin’ with me.”

Sadie Adler was glaring at Rane from over the back of her horse. John Marston, who was pulling the saddle taut on his own mount, glanced at her.

“Dutch wants her with us,” he said. He looked at Rane, his expression quite cool. “I bet she’d rather be rubbin’ shoulders with somebody else, though, from the -”

“Which _fucking_ horse do I take?” Rane asked, unable to keep the fury from her voice. She was almost shaking with it, and it was all she could do to stop herself from shouting outright. Dutch had just granted her passage, and it had come with an order, and she had no patience for covetous-ass John Marston or leery-ass Sadie Adler, not tonight. Best get this thing done with, if the both of them were going to be like this. “Just show me which fucking horse to take, and stop being so goddamned fucking shitty about it, both of y’all. _Christ,_ it's like fifth grade with you people.”

John looked a little taken aback by this. Sadie, however, gestured to her from her mount.

“Come on. Get behind me. Ride back-to.”

Rane looked at her, surprised. Sadie rolled her eyes.

“Look, I ain’t doin’ you no goddamn favor, I just want this over with, same as you,” she said brusquely. “Come _on_.”

Rane clambered on, hoisting herself behind Sadie, grasping her waist. Sadie reeled the horse around.

“Well, come on, let’s get,” she said briskly, looking at John. “Go get us a drink and then get the hell outta dodge. I ain’t wild about spendin’ the evening with this one.”

Rane felt a flash of resentment at this, but she pursed her lips, saying nothing. John, too, was close-mouthed; he steered Old Boy south, and the two of them rode off, Rane clutching Sadie and feeling like the biggest third wheel ever to exist.

  
  


THE ride into Saint Denis was almost entirely silent, but once her initial resentment had passed, Rane didn’t mind; the view was quite incredible, and for once she was distracted by the simple lay of the land as the horses thudded by. It was strange, swampy, beautiful, not like the country where she’d spent her earliest childhood. This was coastland, full of brackish deltas and oaks hung with Spanish moss, and the sky overhead hung with stars and a fiercely bright half-moon. The owls and bullfrogs were loud, as were the sounds of the distant breach of the tide on the beach. Saint Denis itself was even more captivating; as they drew near, the dim lamplight grew stronger, casting the city into sharp resolution, and the smells of horses and saltwater was strong. This was no town; this was a city to rival London.

“This is _huge_ ,” Rane remarked, staring around her as they rode down the main thoroughfare.

“Yeah, well, it ain’t no Rhodes, praise the lord,” said Sadie grimly. “Up there, John, see it?”

“I surely do.” John pulled his horse to a stamping halt. “Hitch up here, let’s get after it.”

Sadie trotted her horse to the post and leaping down tied the bridle up fastidiously. Rane slid off as well, still looking around her with faint bewilderment.

“Come on.” Sadie was looking back at her impatiently. “Through here. Quit gawkin’.”

Rane tore her eyes from the parapets of the buildings around her with an effort. They’d ended their ride before a saloon - a real goddamned saloon, as Rane lived and breathed, complete with a pair of batwing doors - and Sadie and John were striding toward the entrance, both pulling off their hats. There were lights in the windows, and loud drunken banter, and the sound of a piano rattling off some jangling old-timey tune. It was straight out of Lonesome Dove. Rane found herself grinning as she strode at their heels through the doors.

The bar was crowded and loud. John looked over his shoulder, pointing aft toward an empty table, nodding toward Sadie.

“Y’all go grab some seat, I’ll be back in a hot minute,” he said, loping off toward the counter. Sadie grasped Rane’s arm, steering her toward the back.

“Come on, you.”

Rane jerked her arm away, feeling another flash of annoyance. “I can see where we’re going, lady, Jesus.”

“Yeah, well, even a blind hog finds an acorn once in a while,” Sadie muttered, looking cross. She pulled a chair out with a scree and sat down, looking over toward the bar. Rane followed her gaze as she sat down. John was still leaning against the bar, arms folded and boots staggered, his shoulders hunched.

“Hey, Sadie, listen -”

“Oh, I already know where _this_ is goin’,” Sadie said, looking grimly amused. “You ain’t so bad, you didn’t mean to get things off on the wrong foot, you just wanna try and get along since we gotta work together, after all. That it? Did I peg ya?”

Rane looked at her for a long moment, chewing her lip. The clamor of drunkards around them was loud, the piano hectically cheerful.

“Actually I was going to tell you I’m sorry about what happened to your man,” she said at last. “I lost mine, too, right in front of me. I know what it’s like.”

The caustic smile dropped off of Sadie’s face like lead. She stared at Rane in shocked silence.

“ _What’d_ you say?”

Rane merely looked at Sadie, her hands clasped on the table, her long hair hanging in her face.

“How the hell do you know what happened to Jake?” Sadie breathed. Her face had fallen oddly still, and her fists were clenched on the tabletop before her. She was staring at Rane as if transfixed. “How the hell do you know about it?”

“Dutch told me.” Rane held her gaze steadily, unflinching. She didn’t like talking about Sirius, especially not with this unfriendly stranger, but she meant to have her say. “Sirius was murdered not ten feet from me. I wasn't quick enough to save him. So I killed the woman who did it instead.” She paused, her eyes flicking between Sadie’s, and went on. “I just thought you should know that we’re not so different, before you write me off as a bad job just because I can do magic. That’s all.”

Sadie stared at her, silent, and Rane held her gaze, unwavering.

“Here we go,” John said, and slammed three tall mugs onto the tabletop, startling both Rane and Sadie into jumping.

“ _Christ_ , John,” Sadie gasped, clutching her chest. “Why you gotta sneak up like that?”

“You okay? You look a little bit pale.” John was pulling his chair back and sitting down, looking at Sadie.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Sadie pulled her beer toward her, looking at Rane speculatively. “Just takin’ it all in, is all.”

“Yeah, well ain’t we all.” John lifted his mug. “Cheers, ladies, let’s get a few of these underneath us.”

“ _Salud_ ,” said Rane, low, still watching Sadie, and the three of them clinked mugs.

“You got some Spanish?” said John, tossing back his beer and looking at Rane. She took a long draught of her own, quite unabashed; she needed a drink after today, that was for sure. “Or are you just tryin’ to impress me?”

"Depends on whether you're impressed,” said Rane, smirking, then held her thumb and forefingers a few inches apart. “ _Un poquito_. Mostly curses."

John eyed her over his mug for a moment, chewing his lip.

“So I guess you got to know Arthur a little bit better today,” he said, running a finger along the rim of his mug and staring off toward the crowd moodily. “What’d ya think of him? Dare I ask.”

“Probably what the rest of us think of him,” said Sadie, looking wryly amused. Her voice had risen again, and she was looking at Rane with a considerably more affable expression. “He’s a big ol’ lunk with a quick gun and an empty head. Same as the rest of you boys.”

“He seems like a decent guy,” said Rane pensively. “I can’t figure out what’s going on with him and you, though. Feels like he’s halfway between hating you and loving you.”

John laughed. “Yeah, well, that’s one way to put it.” He sighed, rubbing his chin. “Arthur don’t care much for what I did after Jack was born, that’s all. I don’t think it was just that he thought I was runnin’ out on Abigail -”

“Well, you _was_ runnin’ out on her,” said Sadie gruffly. “Call a spade a spade, Marston.”

“I know it.” John looked chastened. “I was scared as hell. Ain’t somethin’ I’m proud of.”

Sadie was looking at him, her eyes softening a little. “Well, hell, it don’t much matter now,” she said after a moment. “She took to her heels anyways. And good riddance to bad trash.”

“I guess.” John drank long from his beer, slammed it down, and leaned back, sighing with gusto. “Ahh, Saint Denis. Nasty goddamn place, but it sure feels good to drink someplace that ain’t Clemens Point, that’s for sure.”

“And with nobody but Miss Fancypants-Society-Lady O’Shea for company,” Sadie added, wrinkling her nose. “Lord above, I’m sure I don’t know what Dutch sees in that woman -”

“He don’t see nothin’ past the front of her,” John said, laughing. “That’s just Dutch. I’m surprised she’s stuck around as long as she has. I gotta say,” he added, looking at Rane, “when you got after her the other night in front of everybody, I just about split a seam tryin’ not to bust out laughing -”

“Oh lord!” Sadie clutched her forehead. “Me too! That look on her face! Ah, hell, I ain’t sure about you yet, girl, but that sure as hell was a sight for sore eyes!”

“Well, she was being an asshole,” said Rane, shrugging and grinning. “And I was tired and pissed off. I _still_ don’t know why she was so ticked off at me -”

“Because you’re a lady,” said Sadie grimly, swirling her beer around and looking at Rane. “And a purty one. And any girl she thinks might catch her Dutch’s eye ain’t no good in her book. Take it with a grain of salt. She was just as shitty to me when I showed up, trust me, and Jake wasn’t two weeks in the grave by then. Heartless old lizard.”

“Yeah, she don’t take kindly to pretty much nobody ‘cept Dutch” John agreed. “She wanted to run Sadie here outta camp, too, only Sadie wasn’t havin’ it -”

“Hell, _no_ , I wasn’t!” said Sadie, slapping the tabletop. “I’ll smile and kiss a pig before I let that red-headed old bog-trottin’ bitch run me off!”

John laughed, shaking his head. Rane was looking around curiously.

“Christ,” she murmured, eyeing the other patrons of the saloon. A couple of staggering-drunk men near the entrance were taking turns slugging each other in the face, both bursting into reams of wild laughter after each punch, and meandering near the bar were a couple of women wearing dresses cut so low they were in danger of tumbling out of them. One of them was eyeing John with clear interest, fingering the hem of her skirts. “There are some truly shitfaced dudes in this place.”

“Yeah, well.” Sadie took a draught of beer, sighing, following Rane’s gaze. “Guess it’s the only way these sorry sods know how to pass the time in this God-forsaken place.”

“And are those _hookers_?” Rane asked bluntly.

John and Sadie both snorted at this.

“Well, I heard ‘em called worse than that,” said Sadie, laughing. “Damn, Marston, speakin’ of, that one in the red is eye-fuckin’ you like it’s goin’ outta style, ain’t she?”

“Ah, what can I say, I got that effect on the ladies,” John replied, craning his neck to look at the woman who was watching him, a grin on his face. Rane watched this with a definite flash of unhappiness. She could talk all she wanted to about being drunk when they’d come together, but that little glow of envy was difficult to deny. “Maybe I’ll spring for her, let you two ladies chum around -”

“Shut up, John,” said Sadie, slapping his shoulder. John turned back to his mug, glancing at Rane appraisingly. She was caught - once again - looking at him, her face screwed up with resentment, and quickly lifted her beer to her mouth, averting her gaze. He did the same, now smiling a little.

“Ah, I’m only foolin’ around, quit lookin’ at me like that,” he said, waving a hand. “How much’d Dutch give you, anyways?”

Rane dug into the pocket of her jeans and flipped through the little stack she’d gotten for her pains. “Like thirty bucks,” she said after a moment. “What is that, thirteen percent or something? I guess that’s not too bad, all things considered.”

“Wow,” said Sadie, smirking at John. “Purty _and_ smart. No wonder you’ve lost yer head.”

“Shut up,” said John gruffly. “Give ‘er here, Rane. I’m gonna go get us a proper drink.”

“Good, because this shit is awful,” Rane said, handing him the money and eyeing her mug. “Tastes like somebody ate a loaf of bread and then threw up.”

Sadie threw her head back and laughed loudly at this. “Ah, Christ. You might be a goddamned crackpot but I gotta say, you’re growin’ on me even so.”

“Well, I’ll try to find somethin’ a little more refined for the lady’s delicate goddamned palate,” said John, miming a curtsy before he strode to the bar. Rane eyed him, grinning.

Sadie watched his lean form diminish among the crowd, pushing his way through a bunch of loudly singing drunks.

“You do know he likes ya,” she remarked, looking sidelong at Rane.

“Oh, my _God_.” Rane ran her hand down her face, rolling her eyes. “I swear to Christ, if I have to hear that one more fucking time -”

“Oh, will you _quit it_.” Sadie was looking at Rane over her beer, her gaze perceptive even buzzed. “You ain’t dumb, honey. You seen it. Hell, even _I_ seen it, and I could care less.”

Rane fingered her mug, looking at Sadie.

“You know, I just got done telling you my man bought it,” she remarked at last. “You still think it’s cool to talk like that?”

“Well, sure,” said Sadie, quite unruffled, leaning back and throwing an easy elbow over the back of her chair. “I seen it in your face it ain’t happened last week. Musta been at least a year, maybe a couple.”

Rane blinked. “How -?”

“Because, as you were so _judicious_ to point out, I been through it the same as you,” said Sadie, smirking at her. “And Jake ain’t in his grave six months yet. We got the same affliction, we’re just in different stages of it.”

Rane looked at her warily. Sadie laughed.

“You think you’re clever, darlin’, but if you was _really_ clever you’d know that everybody who’s seen the two of you side by side knows the size of it. None of us was born yesterday, even that empty-headed fool John Marston.”

“Look, I am in _no position_ to -”

“Well, sometimes love picks you, and not the other way around,” said Sadie bluntly. “Sometimes you’re strapped to it like a fool on the front of a train, and that’s just the way it has to be. Lord knows that’s how me and my Jake was.”

Rane looked reflectively at her for a moment. On the other end of the saloon, the piano broke into another sunny ragtime song, and there was a hearty cry of approval from the bar’s patrons followed by the crash of glass as someone dropped a beer bottle.

“How long?” she asked at length.

“Married almost three years. Sweet on each other since we was knee-high to a grasshopper.” Sadie sighed, “He was the best man I ever knew, and I miss him every single day. You?”

“A year. Just one.” Rane grasped her mug, its perspiration cool against her palms. After a moment she downed the rest of it in a go, wincing. “I was pregnant with our daughter when it happened. She never got to meet him.”

“And you killed the one done it?”

Rane nodded, dropping her gaze. “Yeah, I killed her.”

“Was it worth it?”

Rane pondered this for a moment, rubbing her mouth. "I dunno," she said at last, looking at Sadie frankly. "But she deserved it. And it felt good. So . . . maybe."

Sadie leaned back, eyeing her. “You know, I think you just might be alright, Rane Roth. Little bit crazy, but alright, at that.”

They were interrupted once again by John Marston, who had slammed a tall bottle onto the table before them.

“Think that oughta do ‘er,” he said, sliding glasses towards each of them as he reclaimed his seat.

“What the hell _is_ it?” Sadie asked, eyeing the bottle with her nose wrinkled.

“This, my dear, is cog-nack,” said John impressively.

Rane and Sadie both burst out laughing.

“The hell’s so funny?”

“That’s not how you say it,” Rane gasped at him, clutching her chest.

“The hell you say? It’s right there on the damn label!” John pointed to the bottle, looking affronted. “Look, right here. Cog . . . _nack_.”

“It’s _cognac_ , you shit-for-brains, not _cog-nack_!” Sadie told him, pounding the table.

“That’s what I said, Christ!” John popped the cork on the bottle, glaring red-faced at Sadie. “Y’all want any or not? I can keep it to myself if you two are gonna be snarky about it -”

“What possessed you to get brandy, of all things?” Rane asked him bluntly, still giggling. “I took you for a whiskey man, John Marston -”

“Well, I dunno, I thought it’d be nice,” said John, still looking shamefaced as he poured them each a glass. Rane stopped laughing, feeling a little humbled. He was trying to do something nice for her, damned if he wasn’t, and here she was laughing at him like a loon. “You know, somethin’ that ain’t day-old beer.”

“Well, Marston, if you ain’t about the fanciest son of a bitch I ever met,” said Sadie, taking her glass and wiping at her eyes. “Christ, I ain’t had a good laugh in a minute.”

“Well, here’s to fancy French liquor,” said John, raising his glass.

“Hear, hear,” said Sadie, and tipped her glass Rane’s way too. “And to friends old and new.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Rane honestly, and they clinked glasses.

  
  


JOHN Marston had never had cognac before - matter of fact, the only reason he’d chosen it was for the price tag, it seemed a decent way to impress the young lady - but he certainly became familiar with it that evening. For someone who’d balked at the idea of having a token drink with Rane and Sadie only a few hours before, he found himself having a genuinely good time before the moon had crossed the sky. Sadie, too, was clearly enjoying herself despite her misgivings; by midnight she and Rane were side by side on the upstairs balcony, arms slung around one another like old friends, laughing fit to split. The mostly empty bottle of cognac sat at their side. John was slouched over the railing, swaying a little, his feet crossed.

“. . . alright, alright, shut up a minute!” Sadie gasped, wiping at her streaming eyes. “Look, here comes another one, quick, _quick_ -!”

“Christ, you guys are gonna get me in tr - _hic_ \- trouble,” Rane murmured, grinning.

“Oh, come on, just _do_ it!” pleaded Sadie, pulling at her sleeve. “Come _on_!”

“Oh my God, woman! _No_!”

“Oh, come _on_ , just one more,” John agreed, laughing. “Just look at him, all high and mighty, he deserves it, probably just got done struttin’ around the bar bein’ nasty -”

“Seriously, I could get _arrested_ -”

“Lady, you’re runnin with Van der Linde’s boys, you’re liable to get arrested anyways!” Sadie cried, looking highly amused. “Go on!”

“Please,” John added, giving Rane a soppy look. “Do it for me, darlin’.”

“Yeah, do it for John,” Sadie agreed, throwing a hand towards him. “Just look at him, all hangdog, bless his heart -”

“You think just ‘cuz you’re pretty, John Marston, you can push people around,” Rane murmured, glaring at him, but she was pulling her wand anyways, and both John and Sadie cheered softly, laughing. “This is the _last fucking time_ , though, Jesus, you guys -”

She aimed her wand through the bars of the railing at a man who was staggering away from the saloon’s doors, weaving through the street toward the west side of town, shutting one eye to aim.

“ _Avis oppugno_!”

A flock of canaries burst into existence over the man below them and immediately began to divebomb him, chittering angrily. The man looked up at them in shock, waving his hands over his head in alarm, and began to run awkwardly into the distance, shouting and falling all over himself. Both John and Sadie burst into roaring laughter. Sadie fell backwards onto the balcony, clutching her stomach.

“So damn mean,” said Rane, but she was grinning too as she lifted her wand. The birds vanished - she could see the puff of bluish smoke from here - but the man continued to run, shrieking.

“Ah, Christ that’s good,” said John, shaking his head. “ _Christ_.”

“Man, that cognac is nothing to fuck around with,” Rane remarked, holding the remains of the brandy in one hand and eyeing it.

“Yeah, it’ll put hair on your chest,” John agreed, shaking his head. “Speakin’ of, think we mighta lost Missus Adler here.”

Rane looked over at Sadie, who had indeed fallen asleep with her arm thrown over her eyes mid-laugh, her mouth hanging slightly open and her hat fallen back.

“Ah, fuck.” Rane got to her feet with some difficulty. John grasped her arm, meaning to give he a hand, but he staggered backwards and caught her against his chest, nearly sending them both onto their asses again. She laughed, pushing off of him with some difficulty.

“Jesus Christ,” she said, shaking her head. “Sorry.”

“Come on, let’s get a little somethin’ to eat,” said John, turning toward the doorway. “I gotta bed that shit down with something or it’ll be hell tomorrow.”

“What about Sadie?”

“She’s passed out in worse places, she’ll be alright,” said John, smirking. “Anyway, I dunno that I can ride back in this state by my lonesome let alone with her drunk ass in back of me, maybe we oughta buy a couple beds.”

Rane followed John downstairs, clutching at the railing carefully, and they approached the bar side by side.

“Beer,” said Rane at once, slapping the surface. John looked at her in alarm.

“Hang on, now -”

“Two beers,” Rane amended, and digging into John’s pocket slapped a couple of arbitrary bills onto the bar. The bartender looked at her with a touch of trepidation as he pulled the cash toward him.

“You sure you ain’t had enough?” he said.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Rane, giving him what John figured was supposed to be an intimidating look. The bartender shrugged and a moment later two bottles appeared before them. John pulled the bowl of almonds toward him and took a handful, then pressed it toward Rane.

“Here, have a couple.”

She did obligingly enough. John watched her for a moment longer, then turned to the bartender again.

“We need a couple beds, can you spare ‘em?”

“Sure, I got ‘em. Ten dollars each.”

“ _Ten dollars_?” John gaped at him, outraged. “The hell kinda racket you runnin’ here, mister?”

“That there’s the price,” the bartender said, quite unperturbed. “You can take ‘em or leave ‘em, it ain’t nothin’ to me.”

John glared for a moment, then dug into his pocket and pulled out the remaining cash from Rane’s share, counting the coins with one eye squeezed shut. Fourteen bucks. Just shy.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, and flipped the bill at the bartender. “Fine, give us just one, then. I dunno how you sleep at night.”

“Soundly,” said the bartender, extending John a key. He snatched it up irritably then turned to Rane, who was watching the piano player with her chin in her palm, entranced. “Rane. Come with me.”

“Where are we -?”

“We’re beddin’ down, it’s late and I’m drunker than a lord,” said John, hopping laboriously off the barstool. “Follow me.”

Rane took his offered elbow and side by side they staggered up the stairway again.

“THAT’S us,” said John, fumbling with the key before their door. After a moment of watching him struggle, Rane snatched it from him and unlocked it herself, shoving it open with her shoulder. John followed her inside, smirking. Even drunk, she was deft as hell. Spooky, that’s what it was.

It was a little thing, especially for ten dollars - a little bed, a tub, not so much as a candle to light the damn place - but it was something. John duck-walked toward the bed as Rane shoved the door shut and pulled the lock, sweeping the quilt off the bed and lying it on the hardwood, spreading it with his toe. Rane was pulling her boots off and throwing them unceremoniously at the wall, hopping around awkwardly and giggling.

“Come here,” said John, taking her by the arm and guiding her toward the bed. She climbed into it passively enough, and John pulled the sheets up to her neck, leaning over her and wobbling.

“There ya go, miss. Snug as a bug in a rug.” He sat by her side for a moment, pushing the stray strands of hair from her face. Even in the low light, she was heartbreakingly beautiful. “Ain’t you purty. Even when you’re drunk.”

“John,” said Rane softly, moving aside a little. “You are not sleeping on the fucking floor.”

John watched her for a moment, chewing his lip.

“You sure Arthur would want that?” he said at last, unable to help himself.

“John. Just shut up and get in here with me. Don’t be stupid.” Rane patted the mattress at her side. “Come on.”

“You sure?”

Rane rolled her eyes. “I swear to God -”

“I’m just askin’.”

“Yes.” Rane tugged at his arm. “Come on. Jesus Christ, it’s like pulling teeth.”

After another moment of hesitation he did, pulling his shirt off over his head. Rane held the sheets up for him until he was nestled at her side, facing her with one hand under the pillow they shared, and then dropped them over his shoulders. He took her free hand in his own, holding it against his chest, looking at her in the darkness.

They lay like that for a few moments in silence, John’s eyes flicking over her features, his face solemn. Rane could feel his heart thumping steadily against her hand. After a moment he reached up and touched her cheek gently, infinitely tender.

“You told me you were gonna say somethin’ stupid the other night,” he said at last.

“I did say that.” Rane’s voice was easy, but John could sense the wariness in her face even in the dark.

“What was it, you were gonna say?”

Rane took a breath and released it, trying to decide if she wanted to lie. She’d done it once before, fairly enough.

“I was going to say that I could see myself caring about you down the line,” she admitted at length. Even in the low light, John could see the flush in her face. “That’s what I was going to say.”

“Well, I gotta say somethin’, too” he said quietly. “Mayhap it’s just as stupid.”

“What?” Rane asked, her eyes glittering in the darkness, smirking.

John did not smile back. “I might just be drunk, and I might feel foolish tomorrow, but I feel like I oughta say it while I’m feeling brave enough,” he said softly. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

A dense silence fell between them, broken only by the piano downstairs and the crickets outside.

"I'm scared," Rane said, very low.

John squeezed her hand in his. He hesitated, then said in an uncharacteristically timid voice, “I’m scared too. Scared outta my wits.”

They looked at one another in the darkness, each as frightened as the next. After a little while, John leaned forward, pressed his mouth against her forehead, and pulled her close to him, relishing the smell of her. Rane nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, his arms wrapped around her. They fell asleep that way, chest to chest beneath the sheet while the crickets sang outside.


	13. Abigail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Rane get a hexed Sadie Adler back to camp, but there's a surprise waiting for them.

_You know that I've had enough_   
_I dare ya to call my bluff_   
_Can't take too much of a good thing_   
_I'm telling you._

\- **Halestorm**

______________________

“Get up. Now.”

John Marston opened his eyes, startled by this gruff voice. The room was awash in golden morning sunlight, and the sound of roosters was faintly perceptible somewhere further in town. He was lying on his back, and Rane was nestled against the hollow of his shoulder, still soundly asleep, breathing gently.

He looked to his left and started. Two men stood there, clad in dusters, both holding what John was certain were wands. He sat up, alarmed, jarring Rane awake.

“What the hell -?”

“Get up,” one of the men said again, jerking the wand in his hand. John’s eyes darted to the bedside table, where he’d laid his irons the night before, and the man shook his head warningly. “Don’t you get no funny ideas, neither. Mind me, now. Nice and slow.”

Rane, who had been staring up at the men with the same frozen bewilderment John was, got to her feet at once, and her wand was in her hand so quickly it seemed preternatural. Both the men turned to her, leveling their wands at her instead.

“Who are you?” she asked. And then, when neither of the men responded, she jerked her wand, sending a flurry of purple sparks out of its tip. John got to his feet, almost as shocked by this as he’d been waking up to a pair of strangers in his room. “Who are you? _Say_!”

“We’re here on behalf of MACUSA,” one of the men said. He spoke with a heavy accent and wore a horseshoe mustache that would have made Micah Bell green with envy. “We’re respondin’ to a breach of clause 73 of the International Statute of Secrecy. And I guess we just clapped eyes on who’s to blame, seein’ that fine piece ya got there.”

“You’re aurors,” said Rane flatly.

“That we are, ma’am,” said the mustached man, flicking the brim of his hat.

“Fuck.” Rane sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “ _Fuck_. I _told_ you I was gonna get in trouble, John -”

“The hell is a mah-cooz-ah?” John asked, his brow knit, looking between Rane and the two men.

“That ain’t none of your nevermind, buddy -”

“Magical Congress of the United States of America,” said Rane. “They’re lawmen. Hush, John, just let me handle this.”

“You’re in a lotta trouble, missy,” the other man said grimly. “We got a list of violations about a mile long, and damn near all of ‘em performed in the presence of a muggle. And judgin’ by the look on this one’s face, not a Memory-Wipe in sight, neither.”

“I’m an auror, too,” said Rane. “I had good reason for all of them.”

“You had good reason for settin’ canaries on a muggle at two in the mornin’?” one of the aurors said skeptically. He gestured at the mostly empty bottle of cognac on the floor beside the bed. “I think I see your good reason right here, honey. Looks to me like you was just tryin’ to impress a feller what you wanted to get into bed.”

“Hey, watch your goddamn mouth!” said John, affronted.

“You ain’t registered as an auror,” said the other man, ignoring him. “I ain’t never seen ya.”

Rane bristled at this. “Not with MACUSA, dumbass, with the Ministry of Magic.”

“Oh, the Ministry, is it?” the mustached auror laughed. “Well, Miss Auror, you’ll forgive me my impertinence but you don’t sound too limey to me, so why don’t we just cut the bullshit? You’re causin’ me enough paperwork as it is and we all know you ain’t a goddamned -”

“Listen here, _fucker_.” said Rane bluntly. “I didn’t make it through three years of auror trials just for some chaps-wearing limpdick backwood yokel to deny me the title I earned. So why don’t you shut up about what you don’t know anything about? How ‘bout that?”

This response was so snappy that John snorted despite the tension in the room. The mustached auror gave him a sharp look.

“Hush up, boy.” He turned his eyes back to Rane. “It don’t matter _what_ you are, miss, what matters is what you done. I was gonna go easy, but if you’re gonna be that way, I’m more’n happy to bring ya before Chancellor Bourdreaux in Saint Denis and see what’s what -”

“Oh, you’re gonna put me in front of the bench? For what, scaring a drunk guy? Fuck all the way off, man.” Rane’s voice was vitriolic and undaunted, and John had a moment to enjoy a moment of admiration for her. The girl had more guts than you could hang on a fence. “You’d be laughed out of the Wizengamot for even talking about something so ridiculous where I’m from, and if you’re worth half your salt you’d know that. Where’d you get your training from, Costco-?”

“Listen, a violation is a violation!” Mustache said sharply, his voice betraying a touch of affront, a few yellow sparks shooting from the tip of his extended wand. “It ain’t up to you, lady! Now shut up and listen! We’re gonna wipe this feller’s memory just like we had to do for them poor sons of bitches what got attacked by birds last night, and you’re gonna come with us real nice and quiet, and you ain’t gonna try nothin’ dumb. And if ya do, we’re gonna hex the living breathing Christ outta you.”

“Oh, I would _lo-o-ove_ to see you try,” said Rane, rolling her eyes and laughing at the ceiling. “Couple of corn-fed country boys like you? I bet neither one of you has ever even seen a proper duel. Getting sent off after a 73-breach, that’s about a cunt-hair away from swamping out the shitter in my neck of the woods -”

“You’ll shut your goddamned _mouth_ if you know what’s good for ya!”

“Or what?”

John looked at Rane. Her stance had changed a little; she was tensed, still, like a predator about to pounce. It scared him a bit. She was about to throw down, and the last time he’d seen her do that, a dozen men had died.

“I ain’t askin’ again,” the mustached auror said grimly. “Put that thing down and come with us nice and peaceable. Otherwise I’m gonna quit bein’ so pleasant to you and your pal here.”

“I gotta ask you to lay down your wands,” said Rane. “On behalf of the Ministry of Magic. Raising one to an auror is an international offense.”

“You’re right about that, my dear.”

A few moments passed in silence as the aurors and Rane stared at one another. And then -

“STUPEFY!”

“EXPELLIARMUS!”

“OBLIVIATE!”

“PROTEGO! _PETRIFICUS TOTALIS_!”

All of this was shouted nearly simultaneously, accompanied by the bangs of spells and the crash of breaking glass, and the room lit up in flashes of red and blue. John ducked instinctively, covering his head with his arms, shocked by the suddenness of it. There was a loud thud as a body dropped stiffly to the floor.

“ _Christ_!” he gasped, straightening and looking at Rane, shocked. “You gotta _warn_ me before you do that kinda shit -!”

“You okay?” Rane asked. She was shoving her wand into her back pocket, her hair in disarray. One of the aurors had been knocked out cold and had fallen onto the empty cognac bottle on the floor, smashing it to bits. The other was down, too, but it was quite clear to John that he was experiencing some sort of paralysis; he was stiff as a board, his wand on the ground beside his clenched fist, eyes flicking between John and Rane with clear animosity.

“You know who I am, John?”

“The hell do you mean, do I know who you are? ‘Course I do.”

“Tell it back to me, then.” Rane was watching him closely.

“Rane Roth. You’re Rane Roth.” John was looking at her with genuine confusion. “That what you wanna hear?”

Rane looked satisfied. “Pornstache here tried to wipe your memory. Pretty classy, shooting at an unarmed muggle,” she added coarsely, looking down at the Petrified man. “If you were in my department, I’d have reported the hell outta that little stunt, bud.”

She kicked his wand away, sending it skittering under the bed, then aimed her wand at his head. That curious, lazy expression came over his face, the same that had appeared on the Braithwaite’s after Rane had wiped his memory. His eyes skated over John’s face with absolutely no recognition.

“You gonna tell me what in the hell just happened?” John asked, pulling his shirt on.

“Sure. _Obliviate_.” Rane had aimed her wand at the other unconscious auror, and presently turned to face John. “Let’s get Sadie and get the fuck out of here first, though.”

  
  


SADIE was still lying in the same spot they’d left her the night before, her hat over her face. John nudged her with the toe of his boot and she started awake, staring at him. When Rane saw the expression on her face, she felt her stomach drop.

“You ought not do a lady that way, mister,” she said. Her voice was slow and drawling, and as she got to her feet she looked around her with lazy interest. “Purty nice place ya got here.”

“Fuck,” Rane muttered.

“The hell’s the matter with you?” John lifted Sadie’s hat from her head, peering into her face. “You start up on the booze already?”

“She’s not drunk, her memory’s been modified,” said Rane. She cast a dire look backwards towards the room where the two aurors were stowed. “ _Fuckers_.”

“Well, can you help her?”

“Yeah, but it’s gonna take a little while.” Rane rubbed her face angrily. “Dutch _just said_ he’d let me stay, too, and now this. _Fuck_.”

Sadie giggled, placing her hands over her mouth. “That ain’t a very Godly word.”

“We need to get her back to camp,” Rane said, taking Sadie by the upper arm and leading her toward the stairway.

“You think there are more fellers like them two about, or somethin’?” John asked, looking around uneasily.

“I dunno. I mean, usually with something mundane like a Statute of Secrecy breach they send foot soldiers, so probably not, but I dunno if MACUSA is run the same way we are at the Ministry,” she replied. "Especially not in this day and age."

“I didn’t understand one damn word of that,” said John, looking amused.

“I’ll explain on the way, just come on.”

  
  


RANE waited until they were well away from Saint Denis before finally speaking. Her head was on the swivel the whole way through the city, and John noted it with a touch of uneasiness. He still wasn’t completely sure he understood all this magic stuff, but seeing three wizards going at it had learned him one thing: they were dangerous, and probably he wouldn’t stand a chance against one armed with nothing but a couple of rusty irons. Sadie rode back-to with John, clutching his waist and looking around them with dumb wonder. Rane had taken Sadie’s horse and rode at their side.

“So what the hell is MACUSA?” John asked her.

“Like a governing body, except for magical folks,” Rane replied. “Every country’s got something like it. For Britain it’s the Ministry of Magic. Those guys back there, those were aurors, like me. We’re sort of a mix between law enforcement and bounty hunter, like I told you before.”

“And why did those two fellers come after you?”

“Probably somebody saw me doing magic last night, I'd assume.”

“And?”

“Well.” Rane sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “There’s a lot of backstory to it, but basically, a couple centuries back wizards decided to separate from muggles. To protect themselves, mostly, because there were a lot of witch-hunters around and people were getting hurt and killed. So they came up with this thing, the International Statute of Secrecy, this accord between all the nations, and the agreement was that muggles couldn’t be made aware we exist. So you’ve got all these laws now, right?”

“Right, right, makes sense. _Well_ , I mean . . .” John laughed. “Doesn’t make _sense_ , but . . .”

“Well, obviously there have to be consequences for breaking those laws, depending on how huge the violations are,” Rane went on. “So that’s where you get aurors, and I dunno about over here, but across the pond we have a task force, they’re called Calamity Investigators, and they handle the big breaches of Clause 73, which is performing magic in front of a muggle without good reason.”

“What the hell _would_ a good reason be?” John asked. He was grinning in spite of himself, sort of fascinated by all this.

Rane shrugged. “Oh, I dunno. If someone’s life was in danger, say, or you had to defend yourself. Fucking with drunk dudes does not fall into that category,” she added wryly. “Mostly of it’s little stuff like that, though, they send out a couple guys to modify the muggles’ memories and you might get a fine or something. But then there’s really big stuff, too, and they’ll throw you in the clink. There was this chick back in the 1700s, I think her name was Twelvetrees-something or other, who got all hot on some muggle dude and told him everything. Like . . . _everything_. The MACUSA, the schools where they send magical kids, the International Confederation of Wizards, the spells . . . all of it.”

“Sorta like you’re doing now?” John said, smirking at her.

“ _Exactly_ like that,” Rane agreed. John laughed. “Anyways, turns out the guy was a narc, and he stole her wand and went to a bunch of newspapers. _Scores_ of muggles exposed. It was a fucking shitshow, took them ages to hush it all up.”

“What’d they do with the lady who opened her mouth?”

“I can open my mouth!” Sadie piped up from behind John, and proceeded to demonstrate.

“That you can, darlin’,” said John, patting her knee.

“I might be getting this wrong, it’s been a long time since I read about this stuff at Hogwarts, but I’m pretty sure they sent her to prison for a while. A lot of people wanted her executed for it, though. It honestly surprises me a little that they didn’t kill her out of hand.”

“ _Executed_.” John shook his head, looking profoundly disturbed. “Just for bein’ foolish with a man she was sweet on? Seems a little bit much, don’t it?”

“It was a _huge_ fuck up, John,” said Rane grimly. “MACUSA put down a ban on relationships between magical people and muggles around that same time. They weren’t allowed to be friends or get married.”

“Well that ain’t good news for me,” said John.

Rane went bright red. John realized what he’d said a split second after the fact and felt his own face heat up.

“Oh, hell, I’m sorry, that ain’t what I meant, just stickin’ my foot in my damn mouth -”

“It’s okay,” said Rane, shaking her head, “really, it’s fine.”

John looked sidelong at her a moment longer, feeling profoundly embarrassed. Sadie broke the uncomfortable silence by crying out delightedly and pointing skywards, making Rane and John both jump.

“Look! A heron!”

Rane eyed the bird flying overhead with one eye squinted shut against the sunlight. “Well, at least she remembers _something_. Maybe they didn’t go too deep.”

“Maybe we oughta just leave her like this,” said John, looking over his shoulder at Sadie, amused. “I kinda like her this way.”

“You’re a sick fuck, John Marston, and you have my pity.”

“So you reckon them fellers, that MACUSA, are gonna come after ya?”

Rane sighed, rubbing her neck ruefully. “I mean, attacking an auror is pretty serious, that’s no slap on the wrist. Plus, there’s the fact that I’ve told you so much about the magical community. Arthur, too, I told him a lot.”

John felt an unpleasant little swoop of dismay at this. For the first time since the evening before, he found himself ruminating on the afternoon Rane had spent with Arthur the day before. And what he’d said to her last night . . . ugh. The thought of it made him cringe. She hadn’t mentioned it yet, but he felt certain she was _thinking_ on it, same as him. He’d never said it so baldly to a woman. He could feel it hanging between them, unspoken but horribly present. Christ, he needed to lay off the bottle.

“Dutch’ll know what to do,” he heard himself saying. “About those fellers, I mean.”

Rane said nothing, but personally she hoped he was right.

  
  


SADIE had fallen asleep leaned against John awkwardly by the time they rode into camp, her mouth hanging open and both hands dangling at the horse’s sides. He slapped at her knee and she jerked awake, staring around her stupidly.

“Wake up, you damned fool,” John muttered, dismounting and pulling Sadie off Old Boy. “You need fixin’.”

Rane tied Sadie’s horse up and put an arm around Sadie’s waist opposite John, helping her toward her tent. Sean, who was sitting at a table with his feet up reading a newspaper, set it down with a rattle, eyeing them with amusement.

“Ol’ Missus Adler got after it early today, eh?”

“She ain’t drunk,” said John.

“I ain’t?” Sadie said, looking at him with confusion.

“No, you ain’t.” John slung her onto her cot, where she sat heavily, limbs willy-nilly, looking around her curiously. “Set right there now, Sadie, I mean it.”

“Okay.” Sadie bounced up and down on the mattress a few times experimentally, the springs creaking beneath her. Rane snorted laughter, unable to help herself. John was striding off toward Dutch’s tent. Rane knelt next to her bed, easing Sadie down until she was lying on her back. Sadie complied complacently enough, her face soft and unconcerned.

“Okay, we’re gonna get you all patched up,” Rane muttered, pulling her wand. “I need you to sit still.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Sadie, looking into Rane’s eyes. “Say, you sure are purty, missus. Can I touch your hair? Looks awful soft.”

“That’s . . . very kind of you to say,” said Rane, struggling with laughter again. “Right now just shut up and lay back.”

Dutch was striding toward Sadie’s tent hastily, looking worried, pulling on his coat, John close at his heel. “The hell happened to Missus Adler? John says you all were set on by someone -”

“Magical lawmen,” said Rane, very much not wishing to go into the intricate details again. “I got sloppy and someone saw me doing magic. I’m sorry,” she added, glancing up at Dutch a trifle nervously. “I didn’t think they’d be able to find me.”

Dutch looked at her appraisingly for a moment, as if considering how to respond to this.

“Well, I am certain you set it to rights,” he said at length. “Didn’t ya?”

Rane nodded. “Yeah, I cleaned it up. Think we shook them.”

Dutch spread his hands. “Then no harm done.”

“No harm done,” Sadie echoed in a weird, singsong voice. Dutch looked down at her, bewildered.

“Well, what the hell’d they _do_ to her?”

“Modified her memory. I can fix it,” Rane added quickly, pulling her wand out. “It’s not permanent. Just . . . makes you act kinda stupid for a little bit.”

John snorted. Sean had edged over curiously and was looking over John’s shoulder.

“Blimey, she looks drunker than a lord,” he remarked, laughing. “Are ye about to do magic, then?”

“Shut up, Sean,” said John, shouldering him back, “it ain’t the damn circus.”

“Oh, to hell with ye, Scarface, ye grumpy old bastard.”

“You boys shut up and let her work.” Dutch was watching Rane closely. “I wanna see this.”

Rane was waving her wand over Sadie elaborately, moving its tip from her feet to her head. When she reached Sadie’s forehead she gave it a final flick. “ _Porto memento_.”

Sadie’s eyes slipped shut at once, her face going lax, and as Rane replaced her wand she began to snore lightly. John and Dutch exchanged a glance.

“That’s it?” said Dutch. He laughed. “Guess I was expectin’ something a bit more flashy.”

“Yep.” Rane got to her feet with a grunt, her long hair swinging over her shoulders. “She’ll probably sleep for the rest of the day, she’s gotta sort of reboot. When she wakes up she’ll be back to normal, though.”

“John?”

All four of them turned. Karen was standing there, and at her side was a dark-haired woman that Rane had never seen. She was wearing a light blue dress and her hands were clasped before her almost primly. She was looking at John fixedly, and John was staring back at her, his mouth dropping open, falling perfectly still.

“Would y’all look at what the cat dragged in?” said Karen heartily.

“Missus Roberts!” said Dutch heartily. “What a surprise this is!”

“Hello, Dutch,” said the woman. She was still looking at John, however, and then suddenly strode toward him and throwing her arms around his neck pressed her mouth into his.

Rane felt as if she’d been suckerpunched. She stood between Dutch and Sean over Sadie’s snoring form, staring at the sight before her helplessly. All of her organs seemed to have vanished and been replaced with whistling emptiness. After a moment the woman pulled away from John, grasping his face in her hands and looking up at him. John was still gaping at her as if unable to comprehend what was happening.

“John, I missed you,” the woman said fiercely, and grasping the lapels of his vest shook him gently. “I truly did.”

“I . . .” John shook his head as if to clear it. “Abigail, what in the hell are you _doin’_ here?”

“ _Abigail_?” Rane blurted. It was a knee-jerk thing, quite out of her control, her voice full of shocked derision. Both John and Abigail turned to look at her, Abigail still grasping John’s lapels.

Dutch glanced between them, then turning began prudently away from Sadie’s tent, dragging Sean along behind him.

“Come on, son,” he muttered pointedly. “This ain’t to do with us.”

“Who’re you?” Abigail asked Rane bluntly. Her eyes roved over Rane critically, from boots to belt to eyes, quite unabashed. “You new or somethin’?”

“Or something,” said Rane. She could hear the terseness in her voice and was helpless to hold it back.

“You ain’t got a name?”

Rane forced herself to swallow another brusque response. _Get a hold of yourself, you fucking idiot, you’re not fifteen_. “Rane. My name’s Rane.”

“Well, Rane, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance but if you don’t mind, I wanna talk to my husband in private.”

It was another gut punch hearing that, and Rane fought not to let it show in her face. John, however, spared her the burden of formulating a reply.

“Now hang on, I ain’t seen you in ages, Abigail!” he said, backing a step away from her.

“Well, I’m here now, ain’t I?”

“I - Abigail - god _dammit_.” John rubbed his face with both hands roughly. “I can’t - I gotta think, Abigail, I need to think.”

He shouldered past her and strode off toward the bayou. Abigail started after him at once, her brow furrowed. Rane watched the two of them walk off, feeling a little sick.


	14. Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles Smith insists on taking Rane on a hunting expedition while John and Abigail catch up

Out of the doorway the bullets rip to the sound of the beat.

\- **Queen**

____________

“Rane, right?”

Rane looked around, startled. She’d been staring off after John and Abigail, frowning. Charles Smith stood there, tying the string on a bow and looking at her mildly. He was tall, dark-skinned, and built like a brick shithouse. He was smiling, though, as low and wan a smile as it was, and she picked up no ill will from him.

“Yeah,” said Rane, shaking her head and offering him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I was miles away. Charles, is it?”

“That it is.” Charles slung the bow over his shoulder and plunged both hands into his pockets. “I see you met Abigail.”

“Yeah, I sure did,” said Rane, glancing after her again. They’d both vanished from sight, but Rane could hear the low sounds of their voices from the other side of camp. “Wasn’t expecting to, from what I was told about her.”

“Well, none of us much were. She’s been gone for months now. Karen said she showed up this morning after someone in Saint Denis mentioned they’d seen us coming and going.”

“Huh. Imagine that.”

Charles watched her for another few seconds, speculative.

“Hey, I’m riding out to run down a few bison. Why don’t you come along?”

Rane snorted and gave Charles a very blunt smile. “I’ve never hunted a day in my life, sir.”

“Well, no better time to start learning.” Charles jerked his head. “Come on. It’s not far.”

Rane sighed. Truthfully the idea didn’t grab her; she was tired, a touch hungover, and anxious about the MACUSA’s unexpected appearance . . . but the alternative wasn’t very attractive either. Being stuck in this camp while John Marston - a man who’d spent the evening hilt-deep in her not two days prior, not to put too fine a point on it - welcomed his estranged wife back into the fold wasn’t something she was terribly eager to suffer through. Rane had a feeling that she might be evoked in the inevitable conversations that must necessarily follow, and that was just the sort of trouble she didn’t want any part of.

As if this thought had conjured it, the sounds of their voices from the other side of camp began to rise, echoing off the flat bayou. Neither Abigail nor John sounded terribly happy.

“Well, it beats listening to that,” she muttered.

Charles was looking over his shoulder toward the shouting, too. “That it does.”

“Good God!” Bill Williamson was striding past, a sack slung over one shoulder, shaking his head. “She ain’t back five minutes and already they’re goin at it again! You believe this shit, Charles?”

“I believe it just fine. Didn’t miss it much, though.”

“Well that’s two of us,” Bill muttered crossly, walking off.

“Did they not get along? When she was here last?” Rane asked.

Charles chuckled grimly. “Like a couple of wolverines caught in a drainpipe. Come on. I’d just as soon leave them to it. You can take one of the morgans over there that ain’t being used.”

Rane cast one more fretful look toward the bayou - John and Abigail were still over there raising hell - and then followed after Charles.

  
  


“YOU’VE never killed anything before?”

Rane glanced over at Charles, smirking. He wasn’t looking at her and he wasn’t smiling, but the humor in his dark eyes was undeniably present. She snorted, feeling grimly amused. The lay of the land was gorgeous - broad, plainlike, with a stiff breeze passing over them as they rode toward the flatlands. Rane had climbed aboard a pretty little roan mare and was trotting along at Charles’s side, the bridle wrapped around one fist and the other resting on her lap and her long hair wafting out behind her. She wasn’t having a good time, exactly, but she was definitely reconsidering her reluctance to come along. The country was intoxicatingly lovely.

“Yes I have,” she said, still smiling. “Many men and women.”

“I meant game, Rane.”

Rane shrugged. “I’ve never had to. Pardon the expression, but I come from a land of plenty.”

“Just conjure up what you need with that thing, then?” Charles nodded to the wand in Rane’s pocket.

Rane shook her head. “Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration.”

“What’s that?”

“Just a property of magic. Can’t summon something out of nothing. So no, you can’t conjure food. Nor money,” she added. “I feel like your boy Dutch is going to ask after that one at some point.”

“I have no doubt it’s already crossed his mind,” Charles agreed. Ahead of them, a little throng of what looked to Rane like pronghorns leapt from their path, scattering in a flurry of hooves into the tall grass. “He’ll be worried more than ever about it now Abigail and Jack are back.”

“Jack?” Rane glanced away from the fleeing pronghorns at Charles, surprised. “She brought the kid with her?”

Charles nodded. “He ain’t yet five. He’s gonna need protecting, and Dutch, well . . . that’s sort of Dutch’s whole angle, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Anyway, enough about that,” he added briskly, fumbling with the opposite site of Taima’s saddle. After a moment he produced a bow and extended it toward Rane. “You ever use one of these before?”

“I’m an Elf,” said Rane with amusement, taking it and stringing it over her shoulder. “They hand you one of these pretty much on the delivery table.”

“You know, my mother used to tell me stories about the Eldarin,” said Charles wanly, adjusting the string on his own bow. Rane looked at him sharply. “Said they were fair folk of the woodlands, quick with a blade and lovely to look upon, but I never knew they carried wands around, too.”

“You know about them,” said Rane faintly. “The Elves.”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Charles, pulling a couple of crude arrows from his saddlebag and looking at her wryly, “I thought fairytales were all they were until I saw you parry that gunfire at camp. After that, I knew I was wrong.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Rane honestly. “And the wand, that comes from the other half of me, by the way. Elves aren’t crazy about magic, they think it’s gaudy. One of many reasons why they’re not wild about me in general.”

“I know how you mean,” said Charles. Then, when Rane looked at him curiously, he went on, “my mother was an Indian and my father was a black man. I didn’t enter the world lucky.”

Rane laughed grimly. “Makes two of us.”

“Was it your father who was one of the Eldarin?”

Rane considered Charles for a moment before answering. She liked him for his bluntness. No one had asked her about this, not even shitfaced-drunk John Marston. “Yeah. He’s a _maethor_ , from a city across the pond called Ylle Thalas.”

“And your mother?”

“Just some young dumb American girl. They were only together long enough to squeeze me out, then she cheated on him and he packed up and took me back to London. It was hard on him. Elves, see, they’ll only marry once in their lives, and if it doesn’t work out they’ll hardly ever take anyone else again. I think he dealt with it by buckling down and teaching me everything he knew. Swordsmanship, Quenya, the whole thing. And my mom just crawled into a bottle and stayed there.”

Rane realized abruptly with a touch of embarrassment that she was rambling a little and cleared her throat.

“Sounds like you’ve had an interesting go,” Charles said.

“Can’t deny it, shit’s definitely not been boring.” Rane was squinting ahead of them, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “Holy fuck, would you look at that.”

Charles did. There were about two dozen bison grazing on the plains, tails flicking idly. He pulled Taima to a slow walk and Rane followed suit, still gaping helplessly. They were massive, shaggy creatures, as tall at the withers as a man stood. A calf capered between them merrily, tossing its head a it loped through the tall grass wavering in the wind.

“Jesus,” Rane breathed, unable to keep the wonder from her voice. “Look at the _size_ of them!”

“You never seen one before?” Charles looked faintly amused.

“I mean, pictures of them, sure, but . . .” Rane pulled out her wand. “Man, I kinda hate to kill one, to be honest.”

“Hey.” Charles was shaking his head. “Not with that.”

Rane looked at him, surprised. “Why not?”

“Because they’re life-giving creatures,” Charles told her. “We kill them with arrows. Otherwise, we cheapen the gift they give us. You understand?”

Rane put her wand away. “You think it’s cheating.”

“If you like.” Charles pointed toward one of the closer bison. “See that one?”

“Yeah. Kinda hard to miss them, they’re fucking massive.”

“Take him down.”

“Me? Why do I have to do it?” Rane asked, feeling a little reticent. The idea of killing game hadn’t appealed much to her back at camp, and now that it was right in front of her she liked the idea even less.

“Because we need to eat,” said Charles steadily, “and you need to earn your keep. And don’t trot out how you saved John,” he added as Rane opened her mouth, looking mutinous. “We’re a family, and if you’re a part of it, you do your share. Besides, I want to see an Eldarin shoot.”

“I feel bad. Look at him, he’s just minding his own business.”

“So were those ten Pinkertons.”

Rane sighed, shrugging. “Below the belt but true. Give me a couple arrows.”

Charles did. Rane pulled the bow off her shoulder, loaded one onto the string and held the other loosely in her fist. She sighted the bison and squeezed one eye shut.

“I haven’t used one of these since I was a teenager,” she warned Charles. “Might be a little rusty.”

“You’ll be fine.” Charles was watching her with clear interest. “Aim for the heart.”

“I always do,” said Rane, and sighed. “Sorry, big guy. Nothing personal.”

She took a breath and let it out slowly. On the exhale she recited a phrase her father had taught her many years ago.

“ _Dramm’taith, belth’breg_.”

She let fly the arrow, and Charles followed its progress, watching the wind try to take it. She’d accounted for it, he realized with a jolt of surprise. And her aim was true. The bison was caught low on its shaggy chest, and it jumped, staggering, looking around toward them and lowing. It began to turn, clearly meaning to flee.

“Fuck,” said Rane, and loosed another arrow so fast Charles could hardly believe he’d seen it at all. It was out of her hand and whistling away in the space of a heartbeat. The fleeing bison ahead fell to the ground, its hind legs kicking up dust, and then fell still. The rest of the herd, cottoning onto the danger, were turning tail and galloping east, their hooves thudding on the earth loudly.

“ _Damn!_ ” said Charles. “That was good!”

Rane was lowering her bow back onto her shoulder. “Define good.”

“Come on.” Charles spurred Taima on. “Let’s go have a look.”

THE bison was even more massive up close. Rane felt a trifle of unease as she and Charles dismounted and approached. Charles knelt before it (even he was dwarfed by the creature) and yanked the two arrows from its side.

“Heartshot,” he remarked, casting Rane a nakedly impressed look. “Not three inches apart, those two arrows. As I live and breathe.”

“I’m a terrible person,” said Rane, looking down at the bison mournfully.

“Nonsense.” Charles straightened, stowing the arrows into his pack and looking at her with amusement. “The bison give life. When I was a boy, our tribe moved with them. We couldn’t have survived without them. We kill because we must, and it gives us life with its death.”

“Sounds like a fancy way of saying, ‘thanks for murdering this buffalo for me.’”

“You did fine. He was heartshot, dead before he hit the dirt. He didn’t suffer.” Charles was pulling out a long, brutal-looking knife from his belt. “You said something, just before you loosed that arrow.”

Rane, who was rubbing her chest ruefully and looking at the wound in the bison’s side with regret, nodded. “ _Dramm’taith, belth’breg_.”

“What’s it mean?”

“It means, ‘fly true, kill swift.’ Something my dad taught me. Kind of like a little prayer. You’re supposed to say it every time you let an arrow fly at something you mean to do in. Never had cause to use it until today,” she added, looking wryly at him. “I grew up on bows but I never took to them. Always liked steel a little better.”

“It shows.” Charles was looking at her speculatively. “You ever field-dressed before? I’m gonna assume not.”

“Just people. With this.” Rane patted her sword, looking at Charles warily. “Do we _have_ to?”

“Yep. Can’t lug this big thing back to camp as is.”

“You enjoy tormenting me, don’t you?”

“A little.” Charles was kneeling next to the bison again, his knife in his hand. “Come here. I’m gonna learn you a thing or two.”

Rane did, reluctantly, drawing her sword and setting it on her knees. “I am not going to enjoy this.”

  
  


IT was a messy business, and Rane was dry-heaving and covered in blood by the time it was finished some thirty minutes later. Charles, who was as somber as ever, watched her with grim amusement as she leaned over her knees a few paces away from the decimated bison, coughing hoarsely.

“You sound like a cat with a hairball,” he remarked.

“Shut up, Charles.” Rane straightened, one hand on her lean hip, the other waving before her face rapidly. “I was just elbow deep in a fucking dead animal, can you blame me for feeling a little grossed out about it?”

“I actually thought you did okay,” Charles replied easily. “Right up until we pulled out that lung, mind you -”

Rane gagged loudly, doubling over again, and spat into the grass, shaking her head. Charles laughed, hoisting the bison’s pelt laboriously onto Taima.

“How are you so okay with this?” Rane asked him with honest curiosity, striding toward her horse and pointedly avoiding looking at the dead buffalo. “Christ, you might have been walking your dog, the way you went about it.”

“I was raised on it,” said Charles, shrugging. “If you asked me to run a sword through a man’s heart, I might be a little nauseous.”

“Well.” Rane sighed, still a little pale, climbing onto the bay mare. “I guess killing cute fluffy creatures and killing smelly old assholes just doesn’t resonate the same way with me.”

“We ought to get back. Pearson likes to throw his stew together early on, and it’s already nearly past midday.”

“Christ, I dunno if I can eat that thing after seeing where it came from,” said Rane, but she could feel the rumbling emptiness in her belly even as she spoke and rather thought she would wolf down fresh bison with impunity if given the chance, same as she had the afternoon before with Arthur.

“That’s big talk,” said Charles wantonly. “Pearson may be a drunken idiot, but he can cook like a mad bastard. So what do you think of John Marston?”

This was so out of left field that Rane was almost blindsided into saying something stupid. This had clearly been Charles’s intention. He was smirking as they rode side by side, his eyes on the trail ahead.

“Where the hell did _that_ come from?” Rane asked him.

Charles shrugged. “Just saw how you were looking at Abigail, is all. Pretty clear you weren’t too happy to see her turn up.”

“Well.” Rane scoffed. “I mean, John told me what she did. Seemed like a pretty shitty move. I didn’t get the idea that she was exactly a pristine specimen.”

“Rane, he mighta played it down, but he did worse,” said Charles frankly, looking over at her. Overhead, a murder of crows flew by, calling raucously, their voice loud in the prarie still. “He left that girl and his son and took off into the wild. Didn’t turn up again for nigh on a year, and when he did it was a mess of excuses about how sorry and confused he was. Where I come from, a man doesn’t abandon his child, no matter what. Simple as that.”

“Why’d he leave to begin with?”

Charles shook his head. “I wasn’t riding with Dutch back then. But from the sounds of it, he was running scared. Worried he’d make a bad father, and worried Jackie wasn’t his.”

Rane fell reluctantly silent, pondering this.

“Is he?” she asked at last.

“You decide for yourself. Personally, I think the boy’s the spitting image of his father. Real nice kid, too. No harm in him.” Charles looked over at her. “Would _you_ have left your kid?”

Rane shook her head at once, thinking of Idril. “No. Never. I’d die first.” She hesitated, then added, “I understand being scared, though. Being a parent, it’s a weird fucking thing. Little tiny human relying on you and all that. I was like twenty-five with her dad almost six months dead, and I didn’t know what the fuck to do. And I consider myself pretty worldly.”

Charles scoffed. “It’s not a question of how worldly you are. It’s about the principle of the thing.”

Rane said nothing, stroking her mare’s neck gently, her hair wavering in the wind. Charles looked over at her, his gaze hellishly perceptive.

“Don’t make excuses for him just because he’s handsome. Doesn’t do you any favors.”

“I’m not making excuses for him,” Rane replied coarsely, a little stung. “But I mean, how do you feel about Abigail cutting out on him like that? To God knows where, taking their kid where he couldn’t follow?”

“I think it suited him just fine,” said Charles bluntly. “He had about as much stake in Abigail and Jack as a snake has stake in a bird’s nest. There for something and then gone.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say.” Rane looked at him with some surprise. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”

Charles shrugged noncommittally. “I like him just fine. He’s my brother, same as any of the rest of them are. But I don’t think much of what he did, and I won’t mince my words.” He looked at Rane, quite unabashed. “Where’s your child?”

Rane shook her head, snapping the reins of her mare. “If I knew, I’d tell you. A lot of weird shit has happened. I’m not even sure where _I_ am, most days.”

“You lost her?”

Rane gave Charles a look so sharp and predatory that he recoiled a little. “No. I would never _lose_ her. The last time I saw her, she was with my people. In Ylle Thalas.”

“Why not with you?”

Rane had considered Charles’s bluntness rather to her liking a while ago, but now she was beginning to change her mind, and she tried to let that impatience show in her face when she looked at him. “It’s a really long story, Charles. I fought with a resistance group, and the house where we lived was compromised. I sent her someplace safe until I could be with her again.”

“Huh.” Charles paced her, looking thoughtful. “What’s her name?”

“Idril.”

“Pretty.”

“Pretty like her.” Rane’s face softened a little, and Charles took note of it and felt a little more warmly towards her. Any woman who spoke of her kid and looked like that was alright in his books. “Prettiest little bundle of cute you ever saw. All black hair, just like her dad. And came out looking more Sindarin that I ever did with those big ol’ baby blues.”

“And her father?”

“You know, if I have to tell one more person what happened to Sirius, I think I’ll pull my fucking hair out.”

Charles fell silent obligingly, saying no more. Rane looked longways at him, feeling a touch of shame.

“Sorry. It’s been a weird few days.” She took a breath. “We fought with the resistance together, and he was killed in a skirmish. Just a stupid thing.”

“I’m sorry,” said Charles sincerely, and for a wonder, that was all. Rane looked at him a moment longer, expecting him to say more, but there was nothing else. He was staring ahead at the trail, his face quite stony.

“You’re a funny guy, you know that?”

“So I’m told.”

“Should I be worried about getting back to camp? With all this Abigail shit?”

“Well.” Charles stroked his chin, looking pensive. “Abigail ain’t the nicest. And any fool off the wagon could see John’s infatuated with you. So . . . maybe so.”

Rane sighed, snapping the reins. “Great.”

“Just keep your mouth shut,” said Charles, shrugging. “You’ll be fine.”

Rane Roth, who had made a career out of never keeping her mouth shut when she ought to, laughed grimly. “Guess we’ll see.”

  
  


CAMP was a mess, as Charles had surmised. John and Abigail had migrated their heated discussion to the far side of the settlement, standing face to face not five feet from where John had first clapped eyes on Rane. Rane followed Charles prudently away from the horse hitch, but her eyes strayed toward the bayou helplessly, and she caught sight of the two of them. They were pissed off, and hurt, and there was some very private shit going on, that was what Rane thought. Although they were making no effort to keep their voices to a discreet minimum.

“- I didn’t have no other _choice_ !” Abigail was saying, her voice coarse. “What did you expect me to _do_ , John?”

“ _Stay_ !” said John loudly, his face reddening. “Stay in camp! _That’s_ what I expected you to -”

“You _left_ us! You left the _both_ of us!”

“Yeah, well, you had your way with everybody in the goddamned _gang_!” John kicked at the gravel beneath him, sending some of the pebbles skittering into the brackish water. “How the hell was I supposed to know he was mine?”

“Because I _\- was - with - you_!”

“Yeah, me and everybody else! Dutch, Arthur, Javier -”

Abigail shoved at John with both hands, and he staggered back a few steps, his boots crunching in the gravel. Rane felt a touch of indignance at the sight of this, from where she stood watching them silently between tents.

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Abigail shouted, and her voice was high and cold now, bordering a scream. “A real goddamned Scotch bastard!”

“Yeah, so I keep hearin’,” John replied to her, but he sounded defeated, and Rane felt her heart sag a little in her chest at the sound of it. She was beating him down, damned if she wasn’t.

“And who the hell’s that _girl_ , anyways?” Abigail snapped at him. “Some goddamned whore you brought with you from Blackwater? That it?”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“ _Her_! That girl with the dark hair! I saw how you was lookin’ at her!”

“It ain’t no business of yours what I do with my time while you’re takin’ our boy and ridin’ out to God only knows where!”

“So you fucked her. That what you’re sayin’.” Abigail’s voice was terribly astute, even while angry. “I saw the way you looked at her, John Marston, like she was somethin’ good to eat -!”

“Oh, shut the hell up! She ain’t no whore, Abigail, she’s here on Dutch’s orders and she’s useful -”

“Oh, yeah, useful for what? Ridin’ a man til he -?”  
  


“Hey.” Charles had grasped Rane’s shoulder and pulled her gently back, and Rane started, looking at him. “Come on. Best not listen to that nonsense.”

She cast a final grim look toward John and Abigail and then turning followed Charles toward the fire.


	15. Mr. Pearson's Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane meets Jack Marston, much to his mother's dismay, and Mr. Pearson reveals to Dutch that the O'Driscolls want a parley

_Standing with my enemy_   
_Hung on my horns_   
_With haste and reverie_   
_Killing with charm._

**\- Soundgarden**

_______________

It was nearly two hours later, as the sun was beginning to sink in the west, that Abigail and John finally shut up, and no one was sorry to hear it, Rane least of all.

Pearson had accepted the bison with gusto, and the stew currently simmering over the fire smelled unspeakably good. Charles had brushed off Pearson's thanks and maintained that Rane had done all the necessaries ( _I just pointed her toward where to shoot_ , he kept saying) and had kept her company while Pearson had busied himself with their supper, sitting by her side next to the fire and passing her a bottle of brandy after a little while. Rane was grateful for his presence; she felt out of sorts, stuck in the middle of this camp alone, and though he didn’t speak much she could tell he was sticking around out of simple kindness, and liked him all the more for it.

“Christ, _finally_ ,” said Sean, low, taking a seat by the fire as the sounds of Abigail and John arguing tapered off. He, Rane and Charles all cast looks toward the bayou, where John could be seen storming away with his fists clenched at his sides. “They been at it for hours, I was beginning to lose my bleeding mind.”

“Seriously.” Rane sloshed the brandy around for a moment and tossed a mouthful back, watching Abigail turn and stomp off toward John’s tent in the opposite direction, her face dark with fury. “If I have to hear her call him a Scotch bastard one more time, I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“You think _that’s_ bad, you shoulda seen ‘em before!” Sean said grimly, pulling the cigarette from his lips and brandishing it at Rane. “It never let up, that. Like a couple of old ladies, ain’t they? It was always you-son-of-a-bitch this and I-didn’t-ask-for-none-of-this that, on and on and on . . .”

“Sounds healthy,” Rane muttered, handing the brandy back to Charles.

“It’s none of our business,” said Charles, taking the bottle and looking at Sean reproachfully.

“Sure it is!” Sean replied. “We gotta listen to it, don’t we?”

“They’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, sure, when one of ‘em kills the other'n, maybe -”

“The hell’s goin’ on?” Arthur Morgan had just appeared at Rane’s elbow, pulling off his hat and looking toward the bayou. “You can hear that shit for half a mile, it's a blue-eyed miracle it ain't drawn the law in already.”

“Abigail’s back,” said Charles, looking up at him.

“The hell you say?” Arthur looked at him in surprise, taking a seat next to Rane. “ _John’s_ Abigail?”

“The very same.” Sean tossed his smoke into the fire and leaned back. "I can't right tell who's more pissed off about it, her or John Marston."

“Jack?”

“Aye, him too. Though I don’t know that I’ve spied him yet.”

“There he is,” said Charles, lifting his chin. A young boy, perhaps four, was running hellbent toward Arthur, his face transported and the dust flying up at his heels. Arthur turned to him, his face breaking out into a sunny grin that warmed Rane’s heart to see. Had she seen him smile like that before? She didn’t think so.

“Is that ol’ Jackie-boy? Can’t be!”

“Uncle Arthur, uncle Arthur!” Jack threw himself into Arthur’s arms, and Arthur accepted this with a hearty laugh. “I missed you, uncle Arthur!”

“Well, I missed you too, son,” said Arthur, lifting Jack up and setting him onto his knee. “Look at you! You’re damn near as tall as I am! How old are you now, eighteen?”

“I’m four,” said Jack, giggling. Charles elbowed Rane from her right and nodded at Jack pointedly, and she glanced over at him, a moment of understanding passing between them. Rane could see right away that he’d been right; the kid was the spitting image of John Marston, right down to the little sideways lilt of his grin. She couldn’t imagine how he’d ever had any doubt. “Me and mama been all _over_ , uncle Arthur -!”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yeah, we saw Saint Denis, and there was a man who was doing magic tricks in the street, and a dog -!”

“Sounds like you had quite the adventure, m’boy!”

“Uncle Sean!” Jack cried, and lunged at Sean next, who snatched him up, laughing. “Hi, uncle Sean! Hi, uncle Charles!”

“Jack.” Charles ruffled Jack’s hair fondly. “Look sharp.”

“Would you just look at this wee lad, he’s all legs!” said Sean, scrubbing at Jack’s head. “Skinnier’n a spider and twice as mean, ain’t ya?”

“I ain’t a _spider_ , uncle Sean!”

“Yeah, well ye right look like one, ye little tyke, you could do with a proper feedin’ -”

“Who’s she?” said Jack, looking at Rane.

“I’m Rane." She stuck out her hand, offering him a smile. Jack returned it with interest as he shook it with both of his own.

“Rane?” said Jack, and giggled. “That’s a silly name!”

“Well, you aren’t wrong,” said Rane, grinning. “You must be Jack Marston. I hear you’re a pretty important dude around these parts.”

“I am,” said Jack solemnly, nodding. Rane snorted.

“Jackie here’s the brains of the operation,” Arthur told Rane gravely. “Rest of us, hell, we’re just peons. Ain’t we, Charles?”

“Cannon fodder, the lot of us,” Charles agreed.

“What’s that?” Jack asked, pointing at the sheath on Rane’s hip.

“This? This is a sword,” said Rane, patting the helm.

“What’s it for?”

“Well . . . protection, I guess.”

“Can I see?” Jack’s voice was timid and reticent, and Rane felt her heart melt a little at the sound of it. Christ, but if he wasn’t the cutest goddamned thing. How did you say no to a face like that?

“‘Course you can, my dude.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure, check it out.”

Rane got to her feet and pulled her sword with a flourish, the blade clanging, and Jack jumped, looking delighted. Arthur and Charles both recoiled a little at the suddenness of it.

“Christ, woman,” Arthur said, patting his chest, “you’re gonna kill me, you keep it up.”

“Wow!” Jack gasped.

“Wanna see a trick?” said Rane, preening a little. She hadn’t had many opportunities to show off her years worth of swordplay prowess, especially to a young guy like Jack.

“Yeah, a trick!”

“Yeah, I wanna see too,” Sean agreed curiously.

“Watch this.” Rane twirled her sword around her wrist a few times, its blade catching the sunlight, then tossed it into the air with a flourish and caught it behind her back, grinning, her hair flying around her. Jack giggled delightedly. Sean looked fairly impressed, too, Arthur noted with amusement; he was watching this spectacle with his mouth hanging slightly open. “Wanna give ‘er a whirl?”

“Yeah!” Jack leapt off of Sean’s lap (a bit too enthusiastically, judging by Sean’s wince). “Can I, Rane?”

“Mind your fingers, she’s sharp,” Rane told him, and kneeling before him flipped the sword around with a deft quickness that Arthur found a little dizzying. “Here. Both hands, grab it right there on the hilt, where the leather is.”

Jack grasped the sword and pulled back, his face strained. The blade dropped into the dirt with a clang.

“It’s too heavy,” he remarked, looking disappointed.

“Nah, you just aren’t used to it, that’s all, my dude. Hold it from here.” Rane tapped his belly gently. “Use your whole body. Gotta pretend it’s a part of you, like another arm.”

Jack’s face contracted with effort and the blade lifted a few inches off the ground. He burst into happy laughter, letting it fall again with a clank.

“I did it!” he gasped, and cast Rane a sunny grin that made her feel about ten feet tall. “Did you see?”

“I surely did, my little dude. Regular old gladiator.”

“But I wanna spin it too! Like you did!”

"Well, that's gonna take some practice, but we can -"

“ _Jack Marston_!”

Rane, Charles, Arthur and Sean all turned. Abigail was striding toward them, both hands clenched at her sides, looking highly annoyed. Jack dropped Rane’s sword at once, his face falling.

“Don’t you touch that,” she snapped, jerking Jack up. Rane straightened, pulling her sword up with her and shoving it into its sheath roughly. “You’ll hurt yourself, child.”

“Oh, hell, Abigail, he was just curious,” said Sean. Abigail cast him a dire look.

“Hush your fool mouth, Sean Macguire,” she snapped.

“Alright, _alright_ , blimey -”

Abigail turned her eyes to Rane. “And you. You stay the hell away from my son.”

Rane eyed her coolly. “You got a problem or something, lady?” 

“Yeah, I sure _do_ got a problem, I got a _big_ problem with you!" Abigail snapped at her, flaring at once. Something about the stiff jut of her body and her wide, angry eyes suggested that she'd only been waiting for an opportunity to air out these grievances. "I got a problem with you foolin’ around with my _husband,_ Rane whoever-ya-are, _that's_ my problem!”

“I beg your pardon?” Rane placed her hands on her hips. "Your _husband_?"

"Yes! My husband! John Marston, my HUSBAND! Don't you act like you don't know what I mean -!"

"I'm sure that I don't, ma'am."

“Abigail, leave her the hell alone, she didn't do nothin’ to you,” said Arthur. “She was just showin’ Jackie her sword -”

“You ain't foolin' nobody, girl.” Abigail leveled her finger at Rane, ignoring him. “He can be as close-mouthed as he likes about it, but I know somethin’s goin’ on between the two of you and I ain’t havin’ it, I most assuredly ain't.”

"Dang, for somebody who took off for half a year with no forwarding address, you sure are protective of him," said Rane coldly. "Maybe it's none of your business anymore what he does in his spare time, most people take that disappearing out of the blue stuff at face value -"

"Alright, alright," said Arthur loudly as Abigail flushed crimson, looking affronted. "That's enough, now, there ain't no call for that kinda talk."

“It ain't none of your business either way!” Abigail shook her finger at Rane. “Just keep out of it, and keep the hell away from him!”

Rane batted Abigail’s finger roughly away from her. “Get your hand out of my _face_ , lady!”

“Don’t you _touch_ me!”

"Get away from me, then! I don't even know you!"

Abigail and Rane glared at one another for a long moment in silence. It was a standoff, and Arthur was a little morbidly curious to witness it. If someone had told him a pair of ladies as pretty as these two would find themselves staring one another down over dumb-ass John Marston before today, he’d have laughed himself into an early grave.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, or what you're doin' here,” Abigail said at last, “but I don't trust ya one damn bit, and I heard about that - that _strangeness_ you can do, and I don't want no part of it. So you just stay away from my boy, and you stay away from my husband. He ain’t for the likes of you.”

Rane met her gaze insolently. "I'm not in the habit of taking orders from strangers."

“Well, get in the habit, then. I don’t know what went on between the two of ya, and he ain’t sayin’, but whatever it is you just put it to bed. And don’t let my son around that damn thing, neither,” she added, looking at the sword on Rane’s hip with dismay. “It ain’t natural, carryin’ a thing like that around.”

“You want me to show you how it works?”

“Rane.” Arthur looked at her warningly. “That’s enough, now.”

“You’d listen to Arthur if ya know what’s good for ya,” said Abigail roughly.

Rane stepped closer to her, eyes flashing. She was taller than Abigail by three inches or so, and Abigail had to tilt her face up to meet Rane’s eyes, but still she showed no fear. Arthur grasped her wrist in his tightly.

“Rane.” Arthur’s voice was harsh, and he had both hands on the sides of his chair as if ready to get up and intervene. “ _Stop_ it, I said, that’s enough. Not in front of the boy.”

Rane glanced at Jack, who was watching this exchange with anxious bewilderment, his arm still grasped in his mother’s fist. She sat down at once and gave him a smile, turning from Abigail.

“Anyways. You be good, my dude. Great work with that sword.”

Jack’s face brightened a little at this, but Abigail yanked him away before he could say anything more, storming off toward the opposite side of camp, her dress flapping about her ankles. Rane watched her go, eyes narrowed.

“Lovely woman, that,” said Sean grimly. “Just a delight.”

“You’d be angry, too, if your boy’s father had run off that way,” said Charles, low.

“Too right you are,” Arthur agreed. ”I do believe ol' Rane here is tryin' to pick a fight."

“I’m trying no such thing,” said Rane irritably, adjusting the sword on her hip. “You saw that, she got in my face. I was just minding my own business.”

“Well, that there’s a fight you’d lose,” Sean said, giving her a grim smile. “That woman don’t play about.”

“I highly, _highly_ doubt that,” Rane replied, laughing humorlessly.

“Oh, would you knock it off,” said Arthur, shoving at her shoulder gently. “Quit actin’ all tough.”

Rane pushed him off of her, grinning at him. “Shush. You know I’m right.”

“Oh, that I do,” Arthur conceded. “But _she_ don’t know that, and she’s just tryin’ to look out for her boy. Far as she can tell, you’re just some Johnny-come-lately who her man’s makin’ eyes at. 'Course she's gonna be pissed off.”

“He’s a cute little guy, though, huh?” Rane said, looking after Jack fondly. Dutch had appeared near John’s tent and scooped him up, to Jack’s clear delight, and was tossing him into the air, laughing.

“Jack? Oh, lord above knows it,” said Sean, shaking his head. “I ain’t much one for kids but I like that little fellow just about fine. Heart o’ gold, don’t we all know it. Here's hopin' he turns out a mote cleverer than his pa."

“You were right,” Rane said, glancing at Charles. “That’s John’s kid, or I’m Abraham fucking Lincoln. Looks just like him.”

“Told ya.” Charles shifted his weight, looking after Abigail pensively. “Dead ringer.”

“I dunno, myself, I think he looks like Javier,” Arthur said mildly, looking at Charles with a touch of amusement. “Maybe even Dutch.”

“Shut up, Arthur.”

“Our Charles here, now, he’s very _serious_ ,” said Arthur soberly, elbowing Rane. “Don’t much abide by jokes, this one.”

“You got an everlasting mouth, and one of these days it’s gonna get you into a world of trouble,” said Charles grimly. “Maybe he looks more like a Morgan."

Rane looked at Arthur, dismayed. “Did you and her -?”

“What? No,” said Arthur at once, shaking his head. “‘Course not.”

“Oh, bugger off with yer horseshit, Arthur!” Sean cried, looking highly amused. “He wouldn’t quit goin’ on about it, would he? Musta been comin' outta the end of a dry spell or somethin' -!”

“Shut up, Sean Macguire.” Arthur’s face was red in spite of the levity in his voice. “I shoulda left you hangin’ in that damn camp.”

“Ho _. . ._ lee . . . _shit_.” Rane was still looking at Arthur. “You guys totally did it, didn’t you?”

“Goddammit,” said Arthur, glaring at Charles with real enmity. Charles was smiling a little. “You just had to open your mouth, didn’t ya? If brains was leather you couldn’t saddle a flea, you know it?”

“I can’t believe my ears,” said Rane mournfully. “The honorable and most virtuous Arthur fucking Morgan, champion of the downtrodden and guardian of the celibate meek . . .” She clapped him on the shoulder, shaking her head. “. . . totally got it on with John Marston’s girlfriend.”

Both Charles and Sean burst out laughing at this. Arthur glared at them.

"Shit. What the hell do you care anyway?"

Rane scoffed. "I didn't say I _cared_ , I just -"

“Are you . . . you ain’t . . . _jealous_ of Abigail Roberts, are ya?” Arthur asked her with faux shock, clutching his chest.

“ _What_?” Rane could feel heat rising in her face. Sean was laughing. “ _No,_ I'm not _jealous_ -!”

“Blimey, think our Missus Roth here might have her a little soft spot for ol' Long, Tall and Ugly over there,” Sean cackled. “Ain’t John just gonna be broken in two!”

“That true? You madly in love with me?” Arthur elbowed her, grinning. “Can’t stop thinkin’ on me day and night? Waxin’ poetic to the moon about how fine and dandy I am?”

"Shut up," Rane muttered, her face now bright red.

"Y'know, sweetheart, you're catchin' me during a rare period of bachelorhood, I'm acceptin' suitors if ya wanna throw your hat in the ring -"

“Oh, leave her alone,” said Charles, and handed Rane the bottle of Brandy, which she took with gratitude. “Both of you.”

“Leave _her_ alone?” Arthur said, casting Charles a wounded look. “What about _me_? You lot were the ones havin’ after me for Abigail -!”

“Oh, so you’re _admitting_ it!” Rane said, brandishing the bottle at him triumphantly. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I believe we have a _confession_!”

“Look,” said Arthur, raising his hands. “When Abigail joined up with us, she was a workin’ girl. That’s just the way it was, plain and simple. You bring a woman like that into a bunch of lonely bastards like this, they ain't exactly gonna wanna sit around playin' euchre.”

Rane made a face and tossed back a mouthful of brandy. “Gross.”

“Oh, hell,” said Arthur, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and mouthing one out. “She ain’t _gross_.”

“How do you know I wasn't talking about you?"

"Oh, was ya? I had the impression you thought better of me, for some reason."

Arthur met her eyes, pursing his lips, clearly trying not to smile. Rane had to turn away, biting the insides of her mouth, to keep from doing the same.

“Your girl here took down a bison today,” said Charles, looking at Arthur with a smirk. “She can wield a bow almost as well as she can wield that sword.”

“She ain’t my girl,” said Arthur.

“What? I’m not?” said Rane, giving him a wounded look.

He looked over at her, grinning. “You should be so lucky, darlin’.”

Rane met his gaze and held it for a moment, smiling, the sun dappling her forehead. Arthur returned it steadily, the cigarette dangling from his lower lip, his eyes turned up with droll amusement. _We have a little secret, don’t we?_ those eyes seemed to say. _Just a little one between the two of us._

“You’re a pretty funny guy,” said Rane. She elbowed Charles. “He’s a funny guy, huh?”

“Hilarious,” said Charles, looking unimpressed.

“Well, in that case, thank you for supper,” said Arthur, getting to his feet. “Smells just about done.”

  
  


THE fresh bison was nothing short of delicious, and Rane wolfed down Pearson’s stew in spite of herself. Her mind tried to present her with images of the blood-smeared carcass several times as she bent over her bowl, but even this wasn’t enough to stave off her appetite.

“Pearson is a fucking saint,” she said when the bowl was empty, leaning back and sighing lustily. “Good Christ, that was amazing.”

“Well, he ain’t much use besides, but the man can cook, that’s for sure,” Sean agreed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Me own mam wouldn’t have much to say.”

“Mine, either,” Charles agreed. “That was a good kill, and true. You oughta be proud, Rane.”

“Well, I’m not one to be particularly proud of slaughtering a big fluffy animal,” Rane admitted, “but I have to say, that hit the spot all the way at the bottom.”

“That it did.” Arthur leaned back, stretching richly. “Ah, God, what a day.”

Charles got up. “That it was. I’m heading off to see what I can fish up from the bayou. Saw a couple bluegill that might make a decent meal.”

“Alright, then.”

“And I’m off to bed,” said Sean.

“It’s like six!” said Rane.

“And?” Sean cast her an offended glance. “Us growin’ boys need our sleep, don’t we?”

“Growin’ boy, he says,” said Arthur, watching him lope off with amusement. “Growin’ sideways, maybe. You know, you ain’t so good at keepin’ a poker face, Miss Roth.”

Rane, who had been about to take another drink of brandy, looked at him over the mouth of the bottle. “The fuck does _that_ mean?”

“Oh, nothin’. Just fallin’ all over yourself over Abigail showin’ back up, is all. Not exactly what I’d call discreet.”

Rane set the brandy bottle down with a clink between her feet. “Listen,” she said. “I don’t give a single solitary fuck about what either of them get up to. Let’s just get that much squared away.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“I don’t. Truly.” She dropped her voice a notch and added, “Why are you so hung up on it?”

“Well, I guess maybe because I suffered the same fate, is all,” Arthur said bluntly, eyeing her from beneath his hat.

“That was completely different.”

“Was it, now?”

“Well, I was sober, for one thing. What was that thing you said? The heart can’t lie?”

Rane recoiled a little, surprised to hear this come out of her mouth. For a few seconds the memory of the afternoon before hung between them pregnantly. She looked at Arthur for a long moment, unsure what to say next.

“You know, I think we might should have us a little talk about that,” Arthur said at last. “At some point.”

“What is there to say? You banged some random chick in a cave,” said Rane, her voice dropping.

“It wasn’t like that,” said Arthur frankly. “And I think you’re playin’ it off, but you know it.”

“What was it like, then?” Rane asked him, watching him closely.

Arthur looked down at her, his eyes on hers, marking the way the sun caught in them and ignited the little shoots of gold at her pupils, and once again the certainty of how he felt about her swam to the surface of his mind, as solid and fully formed as bedrock. He’d definitely fallen for her, somewhere between Rhodes and Clemens Point the night before, and all the protesting and denial in the world would afford him no other truth. He’d spent the morning away from camp under the guise of chasing a lead, but in truth he’d just sort of . . . ridden around for a few hours, his hat tipped back on his head, thinking about this sudden thing that had risen within him. Reconciling it, sort of. Riding was good for thinking. He’d stopped in Rhodes, sat at the bar - something he hardly ever did without company - and asked for a beer, pulling off his gloves and staring moodily off into the distance.

 _You look like a man thinkin’ long thoughts, friend,_ the barkeep had said, sliding the perspiring bottle toward Arthur.

_Yeah, well_. Arthur had taken the bottle, downed half of it in a go and looked speculatively at the barkeep, who was polishing a glass with a filthy rag. _Guess I got long problems._

_Work or women?_

Arthur laughed, shaking his head. _You know, it’s a little bit of both, believe it or not._

_The worst sort, then. You have my sympathy._ The barkeep eyed him curiously, still wiping at his glass. _She married or somethin’?_

_Nah. Not exactly._ Arthur took another draught of beer and sighed. _She might as well be._

_You love her? Or you just want a little taste? Pardon the expression_. The barkeep chuckled, looked amused with his own joke. _Sometimes a man’s just gotta get it outta his system, partner_.

Arthur had pondered this, tracing the mouth of the bottle with his thumb.

_Nah, I think I love her_ , he’d said at last. The sound of that word leaving his mouth was a little bitter, and he made a face. _Don’t I hate to say it out loud, though._

_Aww, don’t hate it, mister. Love is a grand thing._

_Well_. Arthur finished his beer and slammed the bottle onto the counter, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. _Not when you’re an old busted fool like me. Lady like that don’t deserve it._

_She quite the woman, is she?_

_Ah, hell, ain’t she ever_. Arthur stroked his chin pensively, shaking his head. _Beautiful. Like, knock you clean out beautiful. Tough as a boiled skunk and twice as mean. Big ol’ eyes. Dark hair. Ass you could bounce a quarter off of,_ he added, smirking a little. The barkeep laughed.

_Well, fella, you gotta tell her,_ the barkeep had said frankly. _Nothin’ else for it._

_Nah_. Arthur had shaken his head, casting the barkeep a look of slight horror. _Nah, I can’t. She ain’t for the likes of me._

_Suit yourself,_ the barkeep had said mildly, pulling the empty bottle from Arthur and chucking it into a barrel behind him. _But if I was you, I’d say somethin’. Otherwise you won’t never know._

_Yeah, well maybe not knowin’ is better_ , Arthur had said, getting up. _Thanks for the drink, pard. And for the ear._

_Yeah, well. Think on it_. The barkeep had cast Arthur a perilous look as he’d pulled his hat on and started for the doors, smirking. _Might could be she feels the same way ‘bout you, mister_.

_Don’t I wish_ , Arthur had replied, and wondered _._

"I dunno," he said presently, looking at Rane. "But not like that. And I think maybe I ain’t crazy for sayin’ so.” He hesitated, then, his voice lower than ever, added, “you know what I'm sayin' without me sayin' it, don't ya?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I -"

“Arthur, my boy!” a hearty voice cried suddenly. Both Rane and Arthur jumped, startled. Dutch was striding toward them, looking very pleased with himself. “Come with me. We gotta talk. You too, Miss Roth,” he added, gesturing at her. “This could be a good way for you to earn your stripes.”

“Damn sly bastard,” said Arthur, getting to his feet and tossing his cigarette away. He cast a glance toward Rane, who was looking at Dutch, and felt a moment of bitterness. The moment was shattered. Close, but not close enough. “Why you gotta come sneakin’ up like that?”

“Why, I guess it’s my natural talent, is all,” said Dutch, turning and striding back toward his tent. “Come on, now. This is a good one.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” said Arthur, low, starting after him.

MICAH Bell stood in Dutch’s tent, side by side with Mr. Pearson, who was still wearing his apron. At the sight of Rane, Micah balked at once, stepping back a pace and eyeing her warily.

“The hell’s she doin’ here?”

“She’s comin,” said Dutch. “So try not to lose your head and start firin’ all willy-nilly, Micah.”

“Very funny.” Micah was still eyeing Rane with clear distrust. “This ain’t no work for a lady. Just put her on the pot with Pearson and Miss Adler, Dutch, like the rest of -”

Rane took a sudden step toward him, thrusting her shoulders forward, and Micah jerked back at this fake-out, his eyes widening. Arthur burst out laughing.

“I don’t much care for the likes of you, you know it?” Micah snapped at Rane, composing himself, red-faced.

“Well, I think with time and therapy I’ll learn to accept that.”

“Hush, you two,” said Dutch sharply. “Pearson, say it back so these two can hear.”

“And say it right, fat man,” Micah added, smoothing his shirt.

“Alright,” said Pearson, looking at Arthur and Rane. “O’Driscolls. I met a couple of ‘em in town, and they want a parley.”

“A parley?” Arthur looked suspicious. “The hell you say?”

“They don’t wanna fight no more!” said Pearson. “They want _peace_! And Dutch, you said so yourself, we ought not fight battles without cause, ‘specially not now.”

“Colm wants a truce, Morgan,” said Micah. “He don’t want this blood feud between him and Dutch goin’ on any longer. He seen some _sense_ , is all.”

“And you _believe_ that?” said Arthur, looking at Dutch with surprise.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Dutch, stroking his chin. “But I do know that Mister Pearson is right. Fightin’ wars we ain’t got cause to, it ain’t good in the long run, and if we got even a slim chance to make things right with the O’Driscolls, I’m willin’ to take it.”

“Who are the O’Driscolls?” asked Rane, looking between Arthur and Dutch.

“Bunch of bad fellers,” said Dutch. “Headed up by a real mean son of a bitch name of Colm. Me and Colm, well, we got bad blood between us. Years ago, I killed his brother, and he killed somebody I loved dear. It hasn’t been right between us since.”

“So why all of a sudden they want to patch it up?” said Arthur. “That don’t strike you as a little _strange_ , Dutch?”

“Maybe you oughta stick to firin’ that big ol’ iron and leave the thinkin’ to the rest of us,” said Micah sardonically.

"And maybe you oughta learn how to keep that big yap of yours shut for a change -”

“Alright, alright,” said Dutch, waving a hand impatiently. “Here’s how we’re gonna do this. Me and Micah, we’re gonna go meet these fellers, and Arthur, you’re gonna hang back and watch us. There’s a lookout, pretty far outta the way, you’ll be able to see the whole lay of the land.”

“What about her?” said Arthur, gesturing at Rane.

“I want her with you,” said Dutch. “Things go sideways, miss, I want you to scare the living breathing Christ outta those boys.”

“With magic?”

“Yes, with magic. Make ‘em think hell itself is risin’ up to greet ‘em. They try anything and I want them ridin’ out of there knowing the Van der Linde boys ain’t nobody to fuck around with. Can you do that?”

Rane wasn’t wild about the idea of being used as a human firecracker, but she shrugged and nodded. “Sure, yeah.”

“And you?” said Dutch, pointing at Arthur.

“Sounds fine to me, I guess,” said Arthur, shrugging. “I think it’s foolish, though, Dutch. You know we can’t trust a damn word that comes out of those boys’ mouths.”

“Morgan, why don’t you shut the hell up and mind your betters for a change?” said Micah, looking at Arthur sourly.

“You sure do talk a lot of shit for a guy who can’t shoot somebody five feet in front of him,” Rane said before Arthur could respond to this. Pearson snorted, but Dutch gave her a warning glance.

“That’s enough, I said,” he said. “Hush up and come on, the lot of you. And no more bickering.”

“After you, my lady,” said Micah, bowing Rane out. She brushed past him irritably.

“Mount up, boys,” said Dutch, striding toward the horses. “Rane, you ride with Arthur.”

“What about me?” said Pearson.

“You stay here,” said Dutch, looking back at him. “This ain’t the time for tigers."


	16. Colm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch makes a bad call, and Arthur bares it all

Follow me into the desert  
As thirsty as you are  
Crack a smile and cut your mouth  
And drown in alcohol  
'Cause down below the truth is lying  
Beneath the riverbed  
So quench yourself and drink the water  
That flows below her head.

\- **Soundgarden**

______________

“You guys,” said Rane, pointing around Arthur’s shoulder. “On your left.”

Arthur, Dutch and Micah all looked up, following her finger. The four of them were riding toward a plain, the three horses’ hoofbeats loud in the waning afternoon light, Rane clutching Arthur’s waist.

“What d’you see, my girl?” said Dutch, squinting.

“Couple of dudes with guns,” said Rane. “They’re watching us.”

“I don’t see nothin’,” said Dutch, shading his eyes with his hand.

“Nope. She’s right, I see ‘em too,” said Micah, peering up the hill. “Two or three of ‘em.”

Arthur squinted toward where Rane had indicated and finally spotted the men, too. They were far, barely more than specks, but he could see what was clearly a rifle in one of their hands. Lookouts, no doubt about it.

“What d’you reckon, Morgan?” said Micah. “O’Driscolls?”

“Like as not,” Arthur muttered, looking at Dutch. “I don’t like havin’ eyes on us. Makes me nervous.”

“Well, pretty soon, we will have eyes on them too,” said Dutch confidently.

“Pearson mention how many of these fellers are supposed to be turnin’ up?” Arthur asked, still looking suspiciously at the men on the hill. They were following their progress pretty obviously, their weapons held across their chests.

“Nah, but Colm won’t be comin’ alone,” said Micah. “He’d be a fool to, and we’d be worse to expect it. I’d guess maybe half a dozen tops. Nothin’ we can’t handle.”

“Rane, are those sniper rifles?” Arthur asked Rane, turning halfway to look at her.

Rane snorted. “I wouldn’t know a sniper rifle from a frag grenade, Arthur.”

“There’ll be a scope on top, or a sight. Sort of a long skinny thing. Lil’ bit wider at the business end.”

Rane squinted. “Then yeah, one of them does.”

“Damn.” Arthur kicked his horse into a brisk canter, pacing Dutch and Micah. “You sure about this, Dutch?”

“Arthur, it’s gonna be _fine_ ,” said Dutch. “Have a little goddamned faith, would you? I know what I’m doin’. Besides, we got more firepower behind us. If Colm tries doin’ something foolish, we got a girl here could blow him right outta his shoes.”

Rane felt a pang of dismay at this. “I thought you just wanted me to scare them?”

“Well, sure,” said Dutch, looking back at her. “But if it comes to it, you can take a man down with that thing, can’t you?”

“They got a spell for killin’ folk?” Micah asked, looking curious in spite of himself.

“Yeah, but it’s very, very illegal,” said Rane uneasily. “And MACUSA already caught up to me once.”

“Well, if you ride with Dutch Van der Linde, the law’s gonna follow,” said Micah, quite unsympathetic, turning from her. “If you ain’t got the stomach for it -”

“Shut up, Micah,” said Arthur roughly. “Quit antagonizin’ everybody.”

“You got us or not, Miss Roth?” said Dutch, looking back at her, his eyes dark and forbidding.

Rane nodded, a trifle dismayed by how eager she was to please him. No damn wonder all these people followed him. He was a presence to be reckoned with.

“If it comes to it, yeah.”

“That thing can shoot all the way down to the valley?” said Micah skeptically.

“Further than that, if need be.”

“Horseshit.”

“Well, go stand down there real still and see for yourself.”

“Hush, now,” said Dutch before Micah could respond to this jest. “You got our backs, don’t you, Miss Roth?”

“Yeah, I’ve got you guys.”

“Good. See to it that you do.” Dutch pulled his horse to a halt, and Micah and Arthur followed suit. “There, Arthur. You’ll have a good vantage point. Keep low, don’t let ‘em see you. Either of you.”

He was nodding toward an overhanging cliff not far from the trail. Arthur steered his horse toward the overlook, looking backwards with clear worry.

“You be careful, Dutch,” he said. “I mean it, now. However this shakes out.”

“My dear, trusted friend,” said Dutch, and spread his arms expansively, the late afternoon sunlight catching on the gold at his lapels and the breeze ruffling his dark curls. For a moment he looked almost saintlike. “If you’re lookin’ out for me, I would gladly walk into hell itself.”

“Come on, Dutch,” said Micah, his horse pawing impatiently. “Let’s get this over with.”

The two of them turned and galloped off. Arthur watched them until they were out of sight, his face cramped, then turning steered the horse toward the cliff.

THE overlook was a perfect bird’s nest if Arthur had ever seen one. He could see for miles, and the air was profoundly clear, the wind hard and cool and the sun shining overhead like a beacon. He peered over the westerly side, looking down warily. Far beneath them, he could see Dutch and Micah running their horses toward the meeting spot, scarcely more than specks among the grasslands. It was wide open, and there wasn’t cover in sight. He could have killed Dutch himself for that alone.

“Couple of goddamn fools, out in the open like this,” he muttered. “Used to be the man had a little bit more sense than all this.”

“You don’t think this Colm dude is gonna play it cool, do you?” Rane remarked. She was peering toward the north, and when she turned back to Arthur he felt his heart falter a little in his chest at the sight of her. She was painfully beautiful, slender and tall, both hands on her hips, her hair thrown back in the wind and the late sunlight casting her face into sharp resolution. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees and confess himself to her right then and there. Christ, but didn’t he have it bad.

“No, I do not,” said Arthur, tearing his eyes away from her with an effort. “The kind of crap between those two boys don’t just go away. Dutch has been hangin’ onto it with both hands for years now.”

“Dudes riding up from yonderways. Look” Rane was pointing south.

“Shit. Get down, Rane.” Arthur dropped to his hands and knees, army-crawling toward the edge of the rock. Rane followed suit, falling onto her belly at his side and peering down over the plains. “Stay low so they don’t see us.”

Rane did, folding her hands palms-down in the grass and resting her chin on them, watching Dutch and Micah far below. Arthur had pulled the rifle from his shoulder and was aiming it toward the plains, one eye squeezed shut and the other peering through the sights. Dutch and Micah sprang into lurid detail.

“So Colm killed someone Dutch cared about?”

“Mmhmm. His girl Annabelle.”

“Why?”

“Retribution. Dutch broke truce and killed Colm’s brother. Just bein’ a hotheaded old fool like usual. Landed us in a world of shit, that did. We been feudin’ with ‘em ever since.” Arthur adjusted the scope with one hand, his lips pulled back into a sneer against the sunlight. “He likes to talk like it’s all Colm’s fault, but he’s just as bad. Worse, in some ways.”

Rane, who knew a thing or two about retribution for a slain lover, said nothing, merely continuing to watch the tiny forms below them. Arthur, ever intuitive, glanced askance at her, a small smile on his face.

“Penny for ‘em, ma’am.”

“Nothing. Well . . .” Rane shook her head. “If I had a chance to parley with the woman who killed Sirius, I wouldn’t have made it this far. I’d have killed her where she stood.”

“And so you did.”

“So I did. Dutch, though . . .” Rane gestured toward him, flagrantly discernible even from such a distance with his black and red vest and his gold chains twinkling in the sun. “He’s down there doing it anyways. Makes me see why you guys like him so much, that’s all. There’s no way in hell I’d have the guts to forget what Bellatrix did and just saunter up to her like he’s doing with Colm right now. He’s doing it for you guys. For his family. And that seems pretty decent to me.”

Arthur shook his head, peering down the sights again. “Yeah, well, Dutch ain’t always all he’s cracked up to be. He gets some damned idea like this into his head and the dogs of hell can’t drag him away from it. Sometimes I think it ain’t so much about us as it is about his goddamned ego. And I’ve known him since I was a boy not much younger than you.”

“They’re talking,” said Rane softly. Arthur glanced at her, pulling the rifle away from his face.

“You can see ‘em?” he asked, then shook his head. “‘Course you can. Can ya hear any of it?”

“Little touch,” said Rane. “Dutch is pissed. He’s talking about Anabelle.”

“Well, that’s just great,” said Arthur sighing roughly and sighting them through his scope again. “He’s liable to start trouble.”

“The guys behind him aren’t armed,” Rane remarked, looking longways at Arthur. “That’s weird, right? I mean, they’ve got guns, but -”

“Well, none of this feels very good to me,” Arthur told her honestly. “Keep your eye on -”

“ _Hey_!” Rane gasped, and Arthur rolled around just in time to see the butt of a gun coming for his head. Then it was darkness.

  
  


THE next time Rane came to, she was trussed in a shed. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the candlelight, looking around her.

“Fuck,” she muttered, wincing. Her head was thumping evilly. Whatever had happened to her to land her in this place, she’d gotten a good hard blow to the brain somewhere along the line, that was for sure. She could feel the crust of dried blood beneath her nose and sniffed roughly, wriggling it experimentally. Not broken, at least, but sore as hell. Her neck hurt from sitting here in this stupid position, too, with her shoulders hunched over and her head dangling between her knees. It was night outside; the crickets were loud, and beyond the door to her right she could see the glint of starlight through the trees. Out for a good few hours, then. Kidnapped, clearly. It was too like the night the Pinkertons had snatched her up for comfort, and Rane felt a little caress of panic.

_Quit with that_ . The voice of her father, ever present in her most testing times, hard and cool and grimly amused. _Don’t you go to pieces, girl, you were raised better than that. You know what to do. Figure out where you’re at, figure out how to get out, figure out how to lay out anybody in your way. You’re one of the Eldar, for fuck’s sake, so start acting like it._

She looked around her. It was a little place, anyways, dirt-floored and stacked floor to ceiling with hay bales near the entry. There was a dusty dresser nearby, and on top of it was a candle, burning lustily in the darkness. The air was redolent of sheep and horses. A barn, like as not, or some kind of storage shed. Her sword was hanging on the wall some four or five feet away, still sheathed, but it had been placed back into its holster inexpertly, with half the blade hanging out. Somebody had been into her shit.

“Fuckin’ fuckers,” Rane murmured, looking down at herself. Her hands were bound behind her, pulling her muscles tight, and her feet had been tied at the ankles, stretched out in front of her. She could feel the singing discomfort in her lower back and knew that if she got out of here she’d hurt for days from this little vacation. “Touching my goddamned stuff.”

_Think, girl. How’d you get here? How do you get back out?_

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember how this had happened. Arthur sprang to her mind at once, lying supine on the dirt, the sniper rifle clutched expertly in his hands as they scoped out the meeting. Dutch and Micah, far below them. And then she’d spun around at his side, sensing a third presence a beat too late, and the butt of a gun had been coming down on her.

“Set up. Fucking set up.”

_Great. Good work, Sherlock_ . The voice of her father, dry and amused. _They took your sword. So what else you got to work with? Are you a witch or not?_

Rane felt a little flicker of hope spring to life in her belly. With an effort she wriggled around, craning her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her ass, fully aware of how ridiculous she must have looked with her long hair in disarray and her face crusted with blood, twisting herself around and grunting. After a moment she sighed with relief, relaxing. Her wand was still in her pocket. Whoever had taken her hostage - O’Driscolls, she presumed - had stripped her of her sword, but they hadn’t thought to take her wand. They hadn’t known any better. Woe unto them.

“ _Accio wand_!”

It flew to her bound hand obediently enough. There was a bad moment in which she nearly dropped it, and had to dive sideways, knocking the cabinet with her shoulder and cursing, but in the end she caught it between her palms, her breath stirring up dust on the floor and scattering hay.

“Gotcha, you little bastard.”

There was a flash of yellow and the ropes fell away from her. Rane got to her feet awkwardly, brushing herself off and looking toward the doorway. There were voices outside, and Rane crouched low, creeping toward the doorway, her eyes flicking back and forth. She could just see the two men guarding the shed; they were leaning against the doorway, guns lax, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth. Neither seemed in the least bit aware that Rane had broken out of her binds, despite the noise. _Employee of the month material right here_ , Rane thought with a smirk. _Somebody get these boys a raise._

“I ain’t signed up to watch a bunch of Van der Linde’s goddamned fools all night -”

“Oh, hush. You’re gettin’ paid, ain’t ye?”

“Barely.”

“What ya think old Colm’s sayin’ to Arthur Morgan over yonderways?”

Rane felt a little cold swoop in her belly. So they’d gotten hands on Arthur, too. That was bad news indeed. Not exactly a masterminded plan, she thought, but it was pretty clear what the idea had been; distract old quixotic Dutch Van der Linde while he tried to make his manners, snatch up old guns-and-muscle Arthur Morgan and hang onto him for leverage. Only they’d gotten old unknown-quantity Rane Roth in the fray, and they’d crept right up on her like she was deaf, dumb and blind. She cursed herself for not reacting more quickly. Used to be God himself couldn’t get the spring on her, and just look at her now. Taken hostage by a bunch of backwoods assholes, for the second time in a week. _Losing your touch_ , she thought wryly. She aimed her wand.

“ _Petrificus totalis! Stupefy_!”

Both the O’Driscolls fell to the ground with a thud. Rane snatched her sword from the door and buckled it at her belt, striding out of the shed and glaring down at the two men. The Petrified one looked up at her with clear horror, the bottle of whiskey overtured and gurgling its contents into the dirt.

“Always disarm your yardbirds,” she said, and toed him with her boot. “Amateur.”

There was a wail of pain up ahead, and Rane turned sharply, getting a lay of the land. There was a bunker, some ways off to the north, and light was streaming between the two doors. She hunkered down, keeping low.

“ . . . they ain’t the forgettin’ sort,” a voice came from within the bunker, faint, and Rane’s stomach froze. It was Arthur, and he sounded bad. 

She shrunk behind a patch of grass, hand on the hilt of her sword, watching warily as a pair of men staggered past. They came within grasping reach of her, but neither one noticed anything awry. They were laughing and clutching each other. Rane watched them stride off with vague amusement.

“If I was a snake, I woulda bit you,” she murmured to herself, moving on. Christ, but these guys were idiots.

  
  
  


Once she was at the mouth of the little basement she crouched on the steps, looking in, and her heart seemed to clench inside her. Arthur hung by his ankles, stripped of all but his long Johns, his hands dangling and his face bloodied and pale. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair wavering beneath him and catching the low candlelight, and beneath his hanging head was a pool of blood, glistening black in the flicker. He had been shot, and it looked bad; the wound was on his shoulder, and it was deep and hellishly vivid. Blood pattered down from it steadily.

A tall, lanky man stood before him, wielding a cattleman’s pistol and pacing back and forth, looking easy and amused. Rane had only seen him from a distance before this moment, but she knew who he was right away; she recognized the flyaway gray hair and the wide, grim mouth. Colm O’Driscoll. So Dutch’s little social call had gone awry, after all.

“The girl,” Arthur was saying, his voice strained. “What’d you do with the girl?”

“Shot her dead,” said Colm with no trace of hesitation, still pacing before Arthur and looking terribly pleased with himself. “She ain’t no use to me. Dutch ain’t gonna come ridin’ in to save _her_ , now is he?”

Arthur moaned low in his throat at this, his eyes falling shut. It was a sound of genuine grief.

“Oh, Colm, you son of a bitch. You didn’t.”

“Come on now, Arthur, I never took you for the sensitive type,” said Colm, grabbing a handful of Arthur’s shirt and tipping his face sideways to look at him. “The world’s full of nice ladies. Guess your man Dutch is just gonna have to find another one.”

“The hell did she do to you?” Arthur said roughly, and even hung by the feet and bleeding onto the dirt his voice was rife with vitriol and his eyes were flashing. Colm released him, stepping back a pace, and Rane didn’t blame him. If Arthur Morgan had ever looked more like the killer he was in that moment, Rane hadn’t witnessed it yet. “She was just a young damn _girl_ , Colm -!”

“Oh, I didn’t realize I was ‘spose to get your permission before decidin’ what to do with my own boys, Arthur Morgan,” said Colm, and without warning kicked him twice, hard, in the chest. Arthur flailed helplessly, writhing, crying out in agony, blood dashing from his wound and smattering on the ground.

Rane had planned to Stun Colm right up until that moment, but when she saw Arthur’s face contorted with pain, a fury so sudden and fierce fell over her that she saw red. She straightened, striding down the stairway slowly. Her fingers strayed to the hilt of her sword, wishing badly to draw and run him through, and it was only the thought of Dutch catching heat that stayed her hand. Arthur caught sight of her around Colm, his eyes widening, and Colm turned as well, following his gaze. For a moment he simply gaped at her.

“How’d you -?” Colm began, but Rane had drawn her wand and pointed it at him in the space of a second.

“CRUCIO!”

Colm fell to the ground at once, the gun clattering from his grasp, his mouth turned down into a moue of anguish, trembling all over and clutching at his throat. Rane stood over him, wand still leveled, watching him with a combination of curiosity and satisfaction. She had never performed a Cruciatus curse in her life, had never even come close, and the easiness of it had surprised her a little. Looking down on Colm, writhing on the floor, his eyes leaking tears of agony, she felt not a single iota of pity. The image of the blood dashing from Arthur’s wound kept recurring to her. She knelt beside him in the dirt, her boots grinding against the silt, and gazed at him squarely, unsmiling.

“If I let up and you call for your boys,” she said coldly, “I’ll snatch the breath right out of your chest, and then I’ll kill all the rest of them for good measure. You look in my eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

Colm did, his lips peeled back into a snarl of pain. Rane lifted her wand, letting its tip point at the ceiling. Colm collapsed into a heap on the ground, weeping with relief.

“What the hell are you?” Colm gasped, glaring at her.

“I’m nobody,” said Rane, getting to her feet. “ _Incarcerous_.”

Colm fell back onto the dirt with a flump, bound in an instant with thick rope. Turning from him, Rane pulled her sword and swung it with a clang, and Arthur fell to the dirt, coughing hoarsely. She knelt beside him, slinging one of his arms around her neck. His skin was cold and clammy beneath Rane’s touch.

“Well, if it ain’t the magician.” Arthur laughed hoarsely. “Just in the nick of time. Bet ol’ Colm over there was wishin’ he’d been a little bit nicer now . . .”

Colm, who was squirming on the dirt, looked between them over his gag, eyes wild.

“He said he’d shot ya,” said Arthur, looking at Rane with naked relief. “I sure am glad he was bluffin’, and I ain’t afraid to say.”

“The day I let some inbred rube like that shoot me is the day I hang up my sword,” said Rane, low. “Keep your voice down, there are a bunch more outside.”

“That son of a bitch,” Arthur moaned, getting laboriously to his feet with Rane beneath one arm. “Goddamned setup. Dutch shoulda known better.”

He groaned roughly as the fabric of his shirt pulled over the wound in his shoulder.

“You’re hurt bad, sunny Jim,” Rane remarked, looking at him worriedly. His face was as pale as milk and the dampness of the blood over the wound was spreading now that he was on his feet. His weight sagged against her, and his breath came in short little bursts. “You’re gonna have to let me fix you up.”

“How in the hell are we gonna get back to camp?” said Arthur. “I dunno that I can ride like this -”

Rane shook her head. “I’m gonna Apparate us.”

“Your’re gonna what, now?”

“Apparition. We’re gonna go out of being and come back to where I want us to go. It’s gonna make you sick, and it feels sort of weird, but it’s fast.”

“Sounds great,” said Arthur grimly. “How’s it work?”

“Never mind, just hush.” Rane pulled him close to her. “Hold onto me, Arthur. I mean it, unless you want to come up short a leg.”

He hugged her to him, and in the space of a second they had vanished in a flash of light from the O’Driscolls’ camp, leaving Colm fishtailing on the dirt and wondering if he’d gone completely mad.

  
  


ARTHUR Morgan was halfway to death’s doorstep when he and Rane appeared with a pop at the entrance to Clemens Point, but the nausea that overwhelmed him when they landed felt vital enough. He leaned over away from Rane, clutching his stomach, gagging hoarsely. Rane watched him with grim sympathy.

“It’ll pass,” she said, touching his back gently. “It’s kinda weird, your first time.”

“Christ, it’s _awful_ ,” Arthur gasped, shaking his head. “Like bein’ squeezed through a keyhole or somethin’.”

“You get used to it.” Rane slung his arm around her neck again. “Grab onto me, Arthur, I wanna take a look at that hole in you.”

“Ain’t a very ladylike request,” said Arthur wryly, but he allowed her to pull him to his feet nonetheless. She held up beneath his sagging weight easily enough, despite him outweighing her by a good forty pounds or so, and Arthur had a moment to reflect on the way she’d flung her sword around earlier that day. As strong as she was strange, that much was certain.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her, looking down at her. “Your face is all bloodied up, girl.”

Rane looked up at him from beneath her brows, her hair pulled taut beneath his arm, and with her free hand wiped at the crust of blood beneath her nose a trifle self-consciously. “They just clocked me, I’m fine. I can’t believe I didn’t hear them coming up behind us.”

“Yeah, well.” He grunted, clutching at his shoulder, as they reached his bunk and Rane deposited him into it. “Seein’ Colm O’Driscoll ‘bout stupid scared made it all worth it. What was that you did to him? Before?”

Rane sat on the side of his bed, looking a little guilty as she twisted on the lantern that hung over them. The light fell over her face, and even bloodied up like a brawler Arthur felt his heart seize up at the sight of her. He thought of how he’d told the bartender in Rhodes that she was beautiful enough to knock you down, and doubted if the man had known how true those words were.

“Cruciatus curse. It’s pain.” She hesitated, then added, “it’s illegal and pretty nasty, I shouldn’t have done it, but seeing him kicking you around like that just . . . I got mad.”

“I believe Miss Roth must have a heart after all,” said Arthur, grimly amused. He glanced around them at the empty camp. “Quite the warm welcome, you can tell we were nothin’ if not missed.”

“It’s the middle of the night. Everyone’s asleep.” Rane was unbottoning his shirt, examining his shoulder. “I bet they didn’t even miss us yet. _Christ_ , would you look at that.”

The gunshot wound in Arthur’s shoulder looked even worse in the light. Arthur glanced down and cringed sickly away, shaking his head.

“You’re lucky they didn’t blow the goddam thing off,” Rane remarked, pulling her wand. “Looks like you got hit with a fucking cannonball or something.”

“Yeah, well, double-barrel shotgun, might as goddam well have been. What are you gonna do with that?”

“Close the wound, kick off the healing. It’s gonna feel weird. _Vulnura sanentur_.”

The tip of her wand glowed a light blue for a moment, and then Arthur jolted, startled, as a bone-deep itch sprung to life in his shoulder. Rane snatched his hand back as he tried to go for it.

“Oh, _fuck_ , I sure don’t like that,” he said, smirking a little.

“Give it a second. Quit trying to bother with it.” Rane cast him a dire look, and he put his arm back down reluctantly. He looked down at the wound and was shocked to see that the gaping hole had shrunk considerably. It could have been a month old, despite the shining blood that drenched his shirt. The itching was slowly fading now, and so was the pain, for a wonder.

“I’l be double fucked sideways,” he murmured.

“Don’t get too excited, it’s still got a ways to go,” said Rane, stowing her wand. “Believe it or not, that’s the second gunshot wound I’ve had to patch up this week. I’m starting to get good at it.”

“Well, I reckon so.” Arthur put his good arm behind his head, looking up at her critically. “You sure you’re okay? They didn’t pop ya around too bad?”

Rane smiled a little at the concern in his voice. “Were you worried about me or something? While you were hanging by your toes and getting slapped around?”

“‘Course I was,” said Arthur sincerely.

Rane eyed him for another moment, then shrugged and shook her head. “You know me. Take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.”

“I tell you what, Dutch is gonna get the tongue-lashin’ of his life tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that was a bad call,” Rane agreed grimly. “Like, a _really_ bad call.”

Arthur laughed, then winced at the pain it caused him. “Well, get used to it.”

A silence passed between them. Rane sat at Arthur’s bedside, her hands clasped in her lap, and Arthur looked up at her, his eyes blue and sharp, the blood on his shirt still fresh. The crickets were loud beyond them, and the stars were bright overhead. Across the bayou, the call of errant owls could be heard, low and lovely. Arthur marked the tilt of her mouth and the fall of her hair on her shoulders, then abruptly propped himself up onto his good elbow, looking into her eyes squarely.

“I gotta tell you somethin’, Rane,” said Arthur, his brow knitted. He spoke quick and low, as if he wanted to get the words out as fast as possible. “I ain’t no good at lyin’, and I’m about scared shitless to say it, but I’m in love with you. Stupid in love with you. I can’t just pretend I don’t feel nothin’. And I think you oughta know.”

He fell silent, feeling hellishly vulnerable, trying to keep the anxiety from his face, but his traitorous heart was thumping hard in his chest, betraying him. He didn’t know what he expected from her, but what he definitely didn’t expect was the look of pure, devestated terror that rose in her eyes. The expression was so uncharacteristic of her that it made her almost unfamiliar. Her mouth downturned into a moue of fear, her brows contracted over her eyes and the hand on his bed curled into a fist.

“What did you say to me?” she said softly.

“I think you heard me just fine,” Arthur replied, low.

Rane looked at him for another moment in silence, her mouth downturned. Arthur made an impatient noise in his throat, looking at her desperately.

“Well, say _somethin’_ , will you? My heart’s about to beat outta my damn chest.”

“I . . .” Rane shook her head, looking at him with that same weird, flat fear. “I dunno what to say.”

“You look scared outta your wits.”

Rane swallowed hard. “I am.”

“Why?” Arthur sat up a little, wincing at the shooting pain in his shoulder. “What is it? Talk to me.”

Rane shook her head, mouthing wordlessly. Arthur watched her, feeling a sinking in his chest.

“It’s John.”

“No.” Rane shook her head at once.

“You don’t want me.” This was almost harder to say aloud than telling her he loved her had been, and Arthur felt another jolt of unhappiness surge up in his throat. If he needed any more testament to how hard he’d gone head over heels for the girl, here it was. “That’s it.”

“No, that’s not it either,” Rane replied, and upon hearing this she actually slapped one of her hands over her mouth, her eyes large and terrified. It was almost comedic.

“So you feel somethin’ for me too?” Arthur reached out and touched her hand, his eyes skating over his face. “Tell me _somethin’_ , Rane, I’m dyin’ over here.”

Rane got abruptly to her feet, taking a step back, still looking like nothing so much as a cornered animal. Arthur sat up, staring up at her, his brow knitted.

“Where’re you -?”

“I need to go,” said Rane. Her voice was brusque, but the fear dancing in her eyes spoke far louder.

“Rane, hang on, now, you can’t do me like that -”

“I can’t -” Rane passed one hand over her face and lifted the other palm-out. “I can’t do this right now, Arthur. We can talk tomorrow. But right now I just . . . I can’t. Okay?”

Arthur looked up at her for a long moment, his expression unhappy, the low wind teasing the ends of his hair. He lifted one hand up the same way he might in the presence of a spooked horse, speaking slowly.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “That’s fine. We can talk tomorrow.”

Rane turned on her heel, hair whirling, and strode off at this without another word. Arthur watched her go, unhappy and bewildered. He thought she looked like nothing so much as a woman fleeing.


	17. Reciprocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clemens Point becomes compromised, and Arthur Morgan forces the issue

_Warm and sweet_   
_Swinging from a windows ledge_   
_Tight and deep_   
_One last sin before I'm dead._

\- **Soundgarden**

_______________

When Rane woke the next morning, it was to the dulcet tones of Arthur Morgan letting Dutch Van Der Linde have it.

She sat up, pulling her sword on and looking toward the sounds of their voices. Dutch, Micah and Hosea were standing outside Dutch’s tent, and Arthur had one finger in front of his face and was shaking it like all hell. Rane felt a touch of amusement. She wondered if anyone else could have gotten away with talking to Dutch like that, and rather doubted it. Buckling her belt, she made her way over.

“. . . shoulda _listened_ to me when I told ya it was a goddamned _setup_ , Dutch!” Arthur was saying heatedly. “What the hell were you _thinkin’_ , meetin’ up with Colm like that? Hell, even Hosea here said - !”

“We couldn’t have known nothin’, Morgan!” Micah said. Arthur rounded on him.

“And you got this bug in your goddamned ear, fillin’ your head up with these stupid damned ideas, no wonder we keep gettin’ into bad trouble like this -!”

“You watch your mouth!” Micah snapped. “I’m just tryin’ to do right by Dutch, Arthur!”

“Yeah, _sure_ you are!”

“My son. I am sorry. Truly I am.” Dutch lifted both hands up, shaking his head. “I cannot say it enough. If anything woulda happened to you -”

“Somethin’ DID happen to me!” Arthur roared. “I got a shotgun to the chest and strung up like a Christmas turkey, Dutch! Hell, if Rane hadn’t been there I’d probably still be in that damn shed today! You lot sure as hell wasn’t payin’ attention -!”

“Did Arthur wake you with his carrying on, Miss Roth?” Hosea asked with grim humor, looking over at Rane as she drew near.

Rane flapped a hand. "Nah. Barely even noticed."

Arthur and Dutch had both turned toward her, and the anger seemed to drain out of Arthur’s face as he looked at her. Dutch, meanwhile, placed both his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes from beneath his hat, his expression almost comically mournful.

“Are you alright, my dear? Are ya hurt?”

Rane shook her head, laughing. “No, no. No harm done.”

“Thank you for savin’ my boy,” said Dutch solemnly. “He told us what ya did. Thank you for bringin’ him home.”

Rane waved this off, feeling a touch uncomfortable. “It’s nothing. Seriously.”

“No, it’s somethin’,” said Dutch, and shook her gently. “It’s somethin’. And I cannot thank you enough. That’s two of my boys you’ve rescued, now.”

“Speakin’ of which, where the hell’s John?” said Hosea suddenly. Dutch turned from Rane, looking at him. “I’ve hardly seen hide nor tail of him since Abigail and Jack rolled in.”

"Like as not up and run off on 'em again," Arthur muttered, low.

“I sent him and Lenny into Saint Denis,” said Dutch, ignoring this. He sighed, then added, “I believe he’s strugglin’ a bit with it all.”

Arthur scoffed, folding his arms (and wincing a little at the twinge in his shoulder). “What the hell is there for that boy to struggle with?”

“Don’t act so stupid,” said Hosea, looking at him chidingly. “You know exactly why.”

“Listen, forget about Marston,” said Arthur, brushing this off and looking irritable. “We got bigger problems. Them O’Driscolls were plannin’ on bringin’ the law on us, Dutch, and judgin’ by the fact that Abigail and Jack had no trouble findin’ us, I’m guessin’ they won’t, either.”

“The law?” Hosea looked sharply at Arthur, concerned.

“Yeah, Colm said there was a price on Dutch’s head, and he was aimin’ to get us all together and then sell us out.” Arthur looked at Dutch. “You know what that means, don’t ya?”

“Yeah. Means we gotta move.” Dutch passed a hand over his face, looking weary, and sighed. “Damn that son of a bitch. Nothin’ but trouble.”

“Maybe he’ll run scared,” Micah suggested, stroking his mustache and looking at Rane thoughtfully. “Arthur says he was pretty shook up by what she did back there.”

“No. It ain’t like Colm O’Driscoll to run. It ain’t like him to leave it be.”

“Well, I sure as hell wish you’d thought of that before I got pistol-whipped yesterday, Dutch.”

“I _said_ I was sorry, Arthur.” Dutch glanced at him, his face betraying a touch of impatience. “What we gotta do now is move ahead. You boys got any ideas?”

“There’s a little hideout on the other side of the marsh,” said Arthur. “Me and Lenny lifted some dynamite outta there not long back. Think them Lemoyne raiders mighta set up there.”

“Alright, good. Go see if it’s clear enough for us to get everybody out there, Arthur. Take Rane here with you,” he added, giving Rane an approving smile. “Seems she ain’t bad at gettin’ you outta trouble."

Arthur looked none too pleased with this assignment. “Why can’t ya send Charles or somethin’, Dutch, I’m tired and busted up.”

“Oh, shut up with your moanin’, Morgan, you’re as spry as a damn cricket,” said Micah, laughing.

“Hey, I got plugged with a double-barrel yesterday night,” Arthur said roughly. “Try it sometime, why don't ya? Hell, I'd be happy to assist, matter of fact -”

“Charles ain’t goin’ because he’s workin’ on a lead with Javier,” said Dutch loudly, glaring between them. “And I don’t need Miss Grimshaw blusterin’ over you all damn day while she's meant to be gettin' us packed up.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, sighing. “Goddammit. Fine. Come on, Rane.”

“Hey, Morgan!” Micah called after him, cupping his mouth with one hand. “Try not to get caught this time!”

“Grab a horse, girl,” said Arthur, ignoring Micah’s laughter behind them. “Let’s get this done."

  
  


THEY rode out in silence, the hooves of the horses thumping beneath them. The day was gorgeous and bright, all birdsong and fat, fluffy clouds. Arthur didn’t speak until they’d nearly come upon the little house he’d spotted with Lenny.

“You still haven’t said nothing,” he said. His voice was easy enough, but Rane could hear the strain beneath it, and her heart cramped a little bit at the sound of it. Here they were. She'd wanted to put this moment off for as long as possible - she'd hardly slept the night before, had lain awake on her back staring at nothing, brow furrowed, heart racing, full of sick anxiety - but it was clear that Arthur had other ideas.

Rane cleared her throat, bracing herself a little. “About what?”

“About last night.”

“What about last night?”

Arthur wasn’t playing this game today, though; Rane wasn't the only one who'd lost sleep over what he'd said to her. He had dismounted in the space of a second and snatched the lead on Rane’s mare, pulling her to a stop, startling her into a half-rear. Rane grasped at the saddle horn, arms flailing a bit as she tried not to fall off, giving him a shocked look.

“Arthur, what the hell are you -?”

“Get off. Now. You ain’t gonna do me like this.” Arthur was glaring up at her from around the mare’s neck, his eyes hard. “Come on.”

“We’re supposed to be -”

“Get down, I said.”

Rane slid off the saddle on the opposite side, and Arthur strode around the stamping mare, looking down at Rane with real animosity. She backed up a pace, a little dismayed.

“What the _fuck_ , Arthur? Are you squaring up with me right now?”

"I might could do, yeah. You might be good with that sword, but I got six inches and forty pounds on you, so you'd do well to hear what I'm sayin'."

They were standing on the border of the trail, Rane backed into the thick brush, Arthur advancing on her. All the levity and patience had departed from his face, and he was glaring down at her with a tight, cold expression that bordered on fury, his blue eyes flintlike beneath his hat.

“Listen.” Arthur leveled a finger at her. “I bared my goddamned soul to you last night, now the least you could do is level with me, Rane -”

“Get your fucking hand out of my _face_ , man!” Rane said sharply, batting it away. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are -!”

“I think I’m the dumb bastard that told you he loved you eight hours ago!” Arthur replied, undaunted.

The same fear that had appeared on Rane’s face the night before flashed in her eyes again at this - fear that had not come into her eyes even when this big, aggressive, pissed off cowboy got into her face - and Arthur saw it at once, dismayed.

“Why the hell do you look like a hen that’s spotted a fox every time I say it, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” said Rane, and her voice was so low and uncharacteristically defeated that Arthur might not have recognized it if he hadn’t been looking right at her. “I don’t want to talk to you about this shit anymore.”

“Well, that’s just too goddamned bad, because _I_ wanna talk about it.” Arthur took her by the shoulders, meeting her eyes. Forcing his gaze. “You gotta tell me one way or another, Rane. You gotta keep me or turn me loose. It’s cruel if ya don’t, and you know it.”

Rane glared up at him with real enmity, the brush scraping at the back of her shirt. Her eyes were cold and hard.

“Arthur, you’ve known me for half a fucking week, you don't know -”

“I know that I love you,” Arthur said, and shook her gently. He felt a strange combination of shame and fear at the sound of those words and pushed it aside. Hell, he might as well be hung for a lamb as a sheep at this point. “I know that."

“You _can’t_ know that! You can't know that after a couple of _days_ , Arthur, you just _can't_ -!"

“Sure I can. You tellin’ me I’m too dumb to say whether or not I feel somethin’?"

“I'm not saying you're dumb, I'm saying it’s been _four damn days_ -!”

“Yeah, well four days is long enough, apparently.” Arthur was glaring at her, uncompromising. “I can’t deny it’s there. I won’t.”

"Arthur, this is _crazy, y_ ou don't even _know_ me -"

“Is it John?” The words were out of Arthur’s mouth before he could stop them. “You as sweet on him as he is on you? That why you don’t wanna say one way or another? You can’t decide between the pair of us?”

The effect of these words on Rane was immediate. She turned her eyes back to him in a flash, and now she didn’t look frightened or timid, she looked livid. She placed her hands on his chest and shoved him off of her so hard he staggered backward, arms pinwheeling, wincing as the wound in his shoulder sparkled with pain.

“If one more FUCKING person brings up John FUCKING Marston, I swear to _God_ -!”

Arthur, clutching his shoulder and glaring at her: “Well, spendin’ two nights with him, people are liable to -!”

“No, Arthur. _No_. This isn’t about John goddamned Marston.” Rane’s voice was broad and cold and absolutely furious, and she glared at him from beneath her brows, her hair wavering around her face. “I told you that last night and I’m saying it again today, that’s not it! I mean, for fuck's sake, I slept with that man ONE TIME and nobody has SHUT THE FUCK UP about it SINCE! EVERYONE NEEDS TO JUST - GET _PAST_ JOHN MARSTON, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!”

“Well, what?” Arthur stared at her, the horses pawing anxiously behind him, his face contorted with anger and bewilderment. “What, then? What's stoppin' you from saying whether you feel anything for me, Rane? Because I ain't heard a simple yes or no come outta your mouth yet, just a bunch of bullshit! That's all I'm askin' for! A yes or a no! How hard is that?”

Rane was silent for a moment, glaring at him, breathing quickly, her fists clenched at her side. For all her bombast and shouting, still she seemed unable to give him an answer. He scoffed.

“You wanna know what _I_ think?” Arthur pointed at her. “I think you’re scared to let yourself feel _anything._ For _anybody_. That’s why you’re toyin’ with John Marston and that’s why you’re toyin’ with me. I think you’re a chickenshit.”

“That’s an ugly thing to say,” Rane breathed, low.

“Well, that’s it, ain’t it?”

“No.”

“ _THEN WHAT IS IT_?” Arthur asked her loudly.

“SIRIUS!” Rane shouted suddenly. “IT'S SIRIUS! OKAY? IT'S BECAUSE OF SIRIUS!”

Arthur stared at her, bewildered. She stood before him, her breath rapid, her eyes round and injured and angry.

"I thought Sirius was dead," he said quietly. "What's he got to do with m -?"

"He IS dead!" Rane interrupted. Her face was contorted with rage and hurt, the cords in her neck standing out. And for a wonder, Arthur saw a glitter of tears in her eyes. "That's the whole PROBLEM, that he's dead! I sank every goddamn fiber of my being into loving him, Arthur, and after all that, I got to watch him KILLED right in FRONT OF ME, and I can't FEEL that again, Arthur, I _can't_! It took me three years, THREE YEARS, just to -"

Rane stopped, seeming to catch herself. She sighed roughly, scrubbing at her cheeks with the heels of her hand, continuing on a little more softly now.

“He left me. He was supposed to be around and instead it was just me, grieving him alone. Forever.” She shook her head, looking at the dirt. "I can't go through that again. I can't. It would kill me."

A ringing silence fell between them. Arthur looked at her, saying nothing. Rane continued to look at the packed dirt of the road, her brows knit, breathing quickly.

“You’re scared of me,” said Arthur at last.

Rane nodded, barely perceptible. When she spoke, her voice was very soft.

"Yes."

Arthur moved toward her and grasped her face in both his hands. She flinched away from him, lifting her hands, trying to move out of his reach, but he pressed them aside and held her fast, meeting her eyes with his, trying to pour all of his sincerity into his gaze.

“I ain’t gonna leave you, and I ain’t gonna die,” he said gently, meeting her gaze with deliberation. And when she tried to turn her head away, he tipped her chin back up to him, looking into her eyes. "No, you look at me. I _ain't gonna hurt_ you, Rane."

“You don’t know that. You can’t tell me that.”

"Sure I can. Sure I can." Arthur's eyes flicked between hers. "I ain't him, and I know that, but you gotta understand . . . you gotta. I won't hurt ya. And even if you don't want me, still it'll be."

Rane looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes in the morning sun.

"So is it yes or no?" said Arthur steadily. "Because I feel like I know what the answer is, but I wanna hear it outta your own mouth, girl."

Rane looked at him for a long moment, then her face crumpled. Terror and shame, Arthur thought. She wasn’t so different from him, after all, trying her damndest to deny this.

“Yes.” Her voice was low and defeated.

“Yes? You feel somethin' for me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you cryin’?”

“Because I’m scared to death,” said Rane, looking up at Arthur nakedly. “I’m scared to fucking death.”

Arthur looked down at her for a moment longer, then bending pressed his mouth against hers. He felt her fall into him helplessly, not resisting, her tears wet against his cheeks. This battle-hardened woman who had slaughtered with abandon was frightened about halfway to death of Arthur Morgan, of all things. He could feel her trembling against him. He drew back and pulled her to his chest, closing his arms around her.

"That's all I wanted. That's it." Arthur shook his head. He could feel her heartbeat, frightened and hummingbird-quick against his chest. "Rane, I swear to Christ, I love you so damned much I don't even know what to do with it.”

"I know. I love you, too."

Arthur's eyes fell shut at the sound of this. He'd never heard a woman utter it before, and the emotion that washed over him, the flat need of her, was incredibly strong. He realized with a touch of panic that he was in way over his head here, and if she decided to make a run for it, he'd be years in recovery, no question.

"You know I'm about as scared of you as you are of me," Arthur muttered, and kissed the crown of her head.

Rane pressed her face into the fabric of his shirt, giving herself over to the moment between them. She was a fool for having said it, but it was done now, and she couldn't take it back. And truthfully, she wasn't sure she wanted to.


	18. Shady Belle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Rane ride toward Shady Belle to assess the situation for the gang's move, but they're intercepted.

_That these feelings won't go away_   
_They've been knockin' me sideways_   
_They've been knockin' me out lately_   
_Whenever you come around me._

**\- Citizen Cope**

____________

A quarter hour later found Rane Roth and Arthur Morgan trotting their horses towards the far side of the bayou. Despite the candidness of their conversation before, Arthur had fallen grimly silent, and Rane, all too conscious of what might turn out to be a massive mistake of a confession, was not prepared to break it. He was looking ahead, hat pulled low over his eyes, pacing his horse with hers. He seemed ponderous, somehow. Rane found herself wondering, a little self-consciously, whether he might not be regretting what he'd just said, and was trying to decide how to word an inquiry about this when he finally spoke.

“Tell me about him."

Rane started, surprised to hear his voice so suddenly after such a long silence, jumping in the saddle and then clutching at her chest. “ _Jesus_ , Arthur. Who?”

“Your man, Sirius.”

Rane looked over at him, an expression of faint dismay passing over her face. “ _Sirius_?”

“Yeah.”

“Why the hell do you want to hear about Sirius?”

Arthur shrugged. Rane continued to look at him, scrutinizing his profile, then snorted without much humor.

“Seems weird, is all.”

“Why’s it weird?”

“You know why it’s weird.” Rane studied him. “Especially now.”

“Well, if ya want the truth, I just watched you break down screamin’ his name, and I don’t get the feelin’ you’re much the crying sort.” Arthur turned to look at her. “If a woman feels that way about a man who’s four years gone, I think it’s worth askin’ after. ‘Specially if she was halfway to turning you away because of him.”

Rane’s face reddened a little. “I don’t like talking about him, Arthur, it was a hard time. He died in a bad way and I had to pick up the pieces, and the next couple years I didn’t handle it well. Just . . . hid away and drank myself stupid.”

“You don’t wanna talk to me about it.”

“It’s not _you_.” Rane sighed, scrubbing at her forehead agitatedly. “It’s just -”

“You tell John about him? I bet ya did.”

Rane scoffed at this, glaring ahead at the trail before them. Somewhere nearby on the bayou, a loon called, low and eerie.

“Below the belt.”

“Oh hell.” Arthur glanced over at her, his expression grimly amused. “Come on. Tell me about him. And start with why his daddy gave him such a dumbass name.”

Rane took a breath and let it out. She’d never had to describe Sirius Black before. His face swam to the front of her mind, angular and handsome, lit by his sideways grin, his hair in his eyes. Her heart broke a little bit at the thought. How many times had she woken up to that face?

“He was a looker. Tall . . . long dark hair . . .” She sighed roughly, shaking her head. “Big gray eyes. About as pretty as they come. ”

“Alright, alright, Christ, I get it.” Arthur looked surly.

“You just _asked_ me to tell you about him!” Rane remarked, giving Arthur a scandalized look.

“Yeah, not wax poetic about how goodlookin’ he was.” Arthur waved an impatient hand. “Go on, keep goin’.”

“Well, he was kind of a trust fund baby,” said Rane. She was still steering her mare with one hand on the bridle, but her mind was taken by the memory, and Arthur could see it in her eyes when he glanced sidelong at her. “Rich parents. Came from old London money, all that. Ancient Pureblood family lines. Very boujie.”

“Pureblood?” Arthur looked confused. “What, like . . . full Scotch?”

“Pureblood means that both his parents were wizards,” said Rane. She placed a hand on her chest. “I’m half-blood, even if the Elvish shit wasn’t factored in, because my dad was a wizard and my mom wasn’t. Generally speaking, people tend to think Purebloods are a little bit more hoity-toity. If you come from a family without magic you’re muggle-born, and it’s seen as a kind of . . . well.” She waved a hand. “That’s a whole ‘nother thing.”

“Damn. Rich _and_ well-bred. Likes of me can’t compete with that.”

“Well, he’s dead, so you don’t have to,” said Rane shortly. Arthur glanced at her, chastened.

“Sorry. Go on, I’ll hush.”

“So he joined the Order early on, and there was some trouble. His two best friends were sold out. This was in the early days of the resistance, everyone was already wound up tight. Sirius got pinched for their murder, no trial or anything. Just thrown into the clink. He went away for like a decade.”

“Christ.” Arthur looked at her, a little shocked. “He _killed_ ‘em? His best friends?”

“ _No_.” Rane was shaking her head firmly. “No, absolutely not. He was a patsy. Long story. Anyways, he escaped and went on the run, and the Order picked him back up.”

She fell silent, the thud of the hooves beneath them becoming loud. Arthur could see the roof of Shady Bell up ahead, distant, rising above the moss-draped oaks. Not much further, then.

“So that’s it?” Arthur prompted her. “You met him and fell for him?”

“Sort of. I was an auror by then, so him being a convict and me being the one supposed to be tracking him down . . . you can imagine. Our first meeting didn’t exactly go over. He put the fear of God into me that night, let me tell you.”

“I have a tough time believin’ any outlaw coulda gotten the drop on the likes of you, after what I seen.”

Rane looked at Arthur grimly. “Sirius was a powerful wizard, Arthur. Like . . . notoriously powerful. I wouldn’t have gone toe to toe with him unless I had no other choice. The only reason he didn’t blow me out of my boots was because a mutual friend was sitting right there mediating. Trust me, I was outmatched. And I’m very fucking good, I don’t mind saying,” she added, glancing at him and smirking. “That man was a maestro with a wand. The only reason he got bushwacked like that was because he was so goddamn cocky about it. I loved him, but Jesus Christ, what a hotshot, that man."

Arthur met her eyes, a touch dismayed at the idea of a wizard tough enough to frighten her like that. “Christ."

“Yeah. Then, I dunno . . . I mean, you know how it goes, we started seeing each other at Order meetings, sort of flirting a little bit now and then -”

Arthur grunted, looking surly. Rane looked over at him wryly.

“You asked for this, sir. Quit acting all sulky.”

“Yeah, I know it,” he admitted gruffly.

“Anyways, that's about it. Took me a while to warm up to him, though. For a long time I’d avoided it, I think, feeling anything for anybody. Training to become an auror was pretty much all I did for like three or four years.” Rane's eyes were miles away, and Arthur hated to see it a little. Whoever this Sirius fella had been, he’d stolen her heart away, that was for sure. “I didn’t have time for anything else.”

“Is it tough? To become one of them aurors?”

Rane rolled her eyes. “Very. They only accepted one or two people a year back then. I worked my ass off straight out of school, I must have petitioned to the department six or seven times. They finally vetted me after a year, probably because my dad vouched for me. That or they got sick of seeing my name on the docket,” she added, smirking.

“All that just to be a lawman?” Arthur looked skeptical. “Hell of a thing to suffer for.”

Rane cast him a genuinely insulted look. “An auror isn’t some local yokel handing out parking tickets, Arthur, we’re an elite taskforce. We take down the most deadly wizards there are. It’s dangerous as all fuck, we’re trained harder than the goddamned SEALs.”

“All for what, fellers shootin’ sparkles at ya?” Arthur’s voice was light and teasing, but the look on Rane’s face sobered him quickly. She looked none too amused.

“For your information, it’s a very difficult and very fucking distinguished achievement to become an auror, Arthur Morgan, and I don’t like to hear anyone say it isn't, quite frankly,” she said with a touch of aplomb.

“Okay, okay, Jesus.” Arthur lifted his hands. “So he died."

Rane nodded. She’d had to relive Sirius’s death more times than she’d cared to over the past few days. “He was shot down in a fight, like I told you. It was nasty, we all had a tough time with it, especially his Godson. I was about six months along with Idril or thereabouts.”

“Idril.” Arthur cocked his head. “Purty.”

“It’s Sindarin. Means brilliance.”

Rane’s voice had become a little clipped; her eyes were roving ahead of them, her eyelashes flashing in the low light, her mouth set. She was humoring him willingly enough, but it was clear to Arthur that she wasn’t exactly crazy about it. He’d seen the weird, confused look in her eyes when she spoke about these things, as if she wasn’t quite sure if she’d dreamt it. And all that strange talk in the cave . . . he’d been too enchanted by her at the time to really take it all in, but it disquieted him when he thought on it now. _I think I died_ , she’d said. _The year Idril was born was 1997_. That was ninety-eight years in the goddamned future. It was crazy to even entertain such a thing.

_You wouldn’t have entertained that a girl with steel on her hip and a wand in her pocket saying she was a half-human witch wasn’t full of shit either,_ Arthur thought grimly. _But here you are. So maybe it ain’t so out of the realms of possibility, at that._

“Arthur, I need to tell you something,” said Rane, jarring Arthur from his long thoughts. She pulled the mare to a stamping halt, and Arthur did the same, surprised and a little concerned.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“John.” Rane lifted her hands and let them drop into her lap, looking defeated. “He told me he was falling in love with me the other night.”

It was as if a cold hand had reached up and seized Arthur’s heart inside his chest. Here it was, not an hour after the fact. She was backing out, and his fool heart was about to be broken.

“Well color me surprised.” He nodded, chewing his lip, trying to keep his voice stable. “And what’d you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Rane sighed. “It was the night we went to Saint Denis. It’s been eating me up all morning, I just thought you should know.”

“What the hell cause did he have to bring _that_ up? I thought y’all just took Sadie for a damn drink!” Arthur was trying to keep the outrage out of his voice and failing. His heartbeat had picked up and was racing beneath his shirt. “ _Now_ I’m hearin’ this, after what I said to you back there?”

“I don’t know, Arthur, we were drunk. It just came out.”

“I know John Marston, Rane. That kinda thing don’t just she out of him for no reason, especially with Sadie standin’ right there -”

“Sadie passed out on the porch. It was just the two of us.” Rane was beginning to feel a touch of regret for opening her mouth. She could see how it sounded, now that it was being said aloud, and she wasn't the only one. Arthur had come over a little pale and his eyes were glinting beneath the shade of his hat as he glared over at her, hellishly perceptive. She would never be able to lie to this man, that much was clear. The birds were singing merrily in the trees, and both horses stood mildly enough beneath them, oblivious. “Listen, Arthur, I’m only telling you this because I don’t want to lie to you. I wasn’t trying to piss you off, but this is all gonna come out in the wash eventually and John’s gonna be upset, and I feel like you should know why -”

“Jesus Christ, Rane,” said Arthur, passing a hand over his face and sighing roughly. “I _knew_ I shouldn’t have said nothin’ to you -”

“Hey, _hang_ on!” said Rane sharply, alarmed. “How is this _my_ fault? I can't help how he feels about me -!”

"Maybe not, no, but you sure ain't helpin' the situation by fanning the flames, Rane," said Arthur sharply.

Rane balked at this. "Fanning the flames? How am I fanning the flames?"

“Well, tell me this,” said Arthur, lifting one hand and massaging the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. "If Sadie was drunk enough to pass out on the porch, I'd be willing to bet y'all drank up all the money Dutch gave ya, and you didn't get back 'til dawn. And I know from experience that them rooms in Saint Denis are expensive as hell. So how many did you rent for the night? One or two? Answer me that. There's only one bed in them bastards, it don't take a genius to put it together."

Rane was stricken again by his hellish sharpness. She looked into his eyes, silent.

“Rane.” Arthur grasped his face in both hands and leaned his head back on his shoulders, groaning deep in his throat, dragging his fingers down his skin. “God damn you to hell, woman. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Arthur, nothing happened.” Rane could feel her heartbeat quickening beneath her shirt as she looked at him. Oh, this was fucked to the heavens. “Listen, I’m not telling you this because I want to confess some kind of, I dunno, secret desire to be with John or something, I'm just trying to be honest -”

“Oh, bullshit!” Arthur’s voice was harsh. “You’re telling me because you got a guilty conscience on account of you fucked the pair of us in the space of a week!”

Rane bristled. “Is that really necessary?"

"I dunno, Rane, was it _necessary_ for you to share a room with John Marston? Was it _necessary_ for you to set it up all nice and romantic and shit for him to talk to ya that way?" Arthur gestured angrily. "You know, you got some balls, girl! You really do! Watchin' me carryin' on back there all the while knowin' _full well_ -!"

"I didn't _set it up all nice and romantic and shit_ ," said Rane angrily, imitating Arthur's Western timbre, "he was drunk, he must have just gotten bold, I wasn't _fishing_ for it or something -!"

“Did you sleep with him again?” Arthur hated the desperation in his voice and could do nothing to stop it. “Did you? A couple hours after me?”

"Arthur -"

He waved a hand impatiently. "Nah, just say yes or no. You ain't so good at yes or no, but I need ya to do it right now. I can't - _fuck_!" Arthur shook his head, then slid off his horse and turned from Rane, throwing up his hands. He stood on the edge of the trail a moment, hands on his hips, then turned back toward her, his eyes hard. "Did you sleep with him again or not?"

Rane looked at him unhappily for a second, then hopped off her own horse, facing him. He was breathing quickly, his lips slightly parted, his brow furrowed. He looked more than angry, he looked on the brink of dread, almost panic.

“We didn’t have sex, if that’s what you mean.”

Arthur wasn’t fooled by this mincing of words. “But you shared in his bed.”

Rane sighed, arms dropping to her sides. Arthur put his hands on his hips, laughing without humor.

“And not a full day after you had me in that cave.” Arthur was shaking his head. “You get around quicker than a cold, don’t ya?”

Rane recoiled at this. “Beg pardon?”

“I said you get around quicker than a COLD!” Arthur repeated, his voice rising to a shout that echoed over the empty marshland around them. The horses stamped anxiously, ears swivelling toward him. “You hear me _that_ time, Rane, or should I say it again?”

Rane's own voice rose presently, flat and angry. "We didn’t _fuck_ , Arthur, I didn't _get around_ anywhere -!”

“Oh, well how very fuckin’ _chaste_ of you, ma’am. Wait ‘til Swanson hears of this, he’ll wanna make ya a lady of the cloth, moral compass like that. You show me a pair who spend a night in the same goddamned bed and try to say it ain’t to do with romancin’ and I’ll show you a couple of liars.”

“Dude.” Rane laughed without humor, her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “You’re so wide of the goal posts here it’s almost funny, I swear to God.”

“Well I don't think it's very funny, myself, that I say things to you like I said back there, only to find out you shared a bed with another man a couple hours ago, Rane!” Arthur glared at her, his eyes hard, his heart pounding sickly in his chest. He felt nauseous. He couldn’t remember ever being this angry with a woman, not even during all the times that Mary Linton’s drunken fool of a father had tried to run him off. “You just can’t figure out which one you want, huh? So you string John along by the ear, and you tell me a bunch of pretty lies so you can string me along too. That your game?” And when Rane only looked at him coldly from beneath her brows, her fists clenched at her sides, he kicked at the trail, sending gravel and dust flying. “Huh? _Say_!”

Rane stared at him for a long moment, her eyes hard and glimmering beneath her dark brows. Arthur was reminded of the evening she’d threatened him. Her face was very still, her breathing slow and long, her hair wavering in the breeze. It was that same predatory look she’d worn when she’d told him he insulted her at his peril. The girl who’d wept in his arms earlier that morning while her frightened heart thudded against his chest had vanished. This time, however, he felt no urge to back down; his rage, and his terror, at the thought of losing this woman he’d only propositioned an hour before to the likes of John fucking shit-for-brains scarfaced turncoat Marston was far too large to allow him any room for much else.

“You wanna hear the truth?” she said at last. “About John?”

Arthur spread his arms expansively. “Sure. Get it all out about the dumb son of a bitch, Rane. I’m all ears.”

“After I lost Sirius, I was never with anyone else,” said Rane. Her voice was low, almost too low to hear over the whistling wind and the loons crying over the marsh. “People need to be touched, Arthur. Otherwise we start to go crazy.”

“Rane -”

“Shut up,” Rane said, her eyes flashing. “Just shut up and let me get it out. I don't want to have to say this twice, it's humiliating enough as it is.”

Reluctantly, Arthur did.

“And John,” she went on, “was without Abigail for the better part of a year. And from the sounds of it, she wasn’t very nice to him even while she was around. So now you’ve got two people, starved for affection, drunk and alone. Of course it would go that way. Of _course_ it would. I thought to myself the morning after we slept together that I _could_ care about him, maybe, later on, that maybe I could _cultivate_ something. But it wasn’t the same thing, Arthur. The _potential_ for a thing isn’t the same thing. Okay?”

Arthur said nothing, only continued to watch her, his eyes glittering beneath his hat.

"That shit was out of my system by the time you and I got to that cave, Arthur," Rane went on. "There wasn't any booze, or loneliness, or any of that stuff; my judgment wasn't clouded, I was seeing things clearly. And there wasn't the _potential_ for feeling something for you . . . there was just _feeling it_. _Surely_ feeling it, not later on or maybe or possibly but _right then, right there, feeling it_. Somewhere along the way I forgot how that felt."

She pressed a hand against the flatness of her belly, looking frankly up at Arthur.

"Here. I felt it right here, when you pulled me close to you that way. Not because I was drunk or lonely or sad and starved for touch. Just . . . because of you. Because of how close to me you were, because it wasn't anybody else. It was _you_. And that didn't happen with John." Rane shook her head. "I’ve felt it before and I know what it is. I know the difference."

She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, her eyes sliding away from Arthur's and going to the dirt.

"I'm about to tell you something I would never say out loud to anyone, especially not John," she said. She spoke quickly, as if confessing a beastly disgrace. "So please listen."

"Sure." Arthur was still watching her, very still, disarmed by her sincerity.

"I didn't know you cared about me in Saint Denis, Arthur, but I already cared about you. I put it away, I put it down deep, because I was ashamed of myself, I felt like I was betraying Sirius for feeling that way about you, even more ashamed than I was after John. But when I was laying in that bed listening to what he was saying, all I kept thinking about was how I wished it was you, saying those things to me. I told him I was scared, but when I said it I was thinking of you. Of how afraid I was that I might already be in love with you.”

Arthur looked down at her for a long moment, then with a brusque motion pushed his hat back and leaning down kissed her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She fell against him, grasping his shoulders with panicky tightness.

"I'm sorry," she said against his mouth, her breath warm on his skin. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to upset you -"

"Shut up, Rane." Arthur drew back from her lips, hugging her to him tightly, resting his lips on the crown of her head, eyes squeezed shut. "I ain't upset anymore. You said what I needed to hear ya -"

Before either of them could say anything more, however, a shot rang out, loud and close, and both the horses spooked, whinnying loudly and bolting into the marsh. Arthur and Rane broke apart, shocked. There were a pair of men riding toward them, both holding shotguns.

" _Fuck_!" Arthur spat, going for his revolver. "We're about as dumb as rocks, standin' around like this -"

“The hell you doin’ here? Get the hell out!” one of the men shouted, and aiming his weapon fired once again.

This time it wasn't a warning shot. Rane, who was normally quick enough with her blade to beat the devil himself, never stood a chance; she was disarmed by her conversation with Arthur, startled by the approach of two raiders that she'd been too distracted to notice. The bullet took her high on her left side, exiting between her ribs in a spray of blood. She gasped roughly as if punched, staggering back against the force of it, and fell back onto the trail, clutching her stomach.

“Sons of BITCHES! YOU GONNA FIRE ON AN UNARMED WOMAN LIKE THAT?”

He fired off four rounds one after the other, fanning the revolver from the hip, hideously fast. The first two went wide; the second two did not. Both the Raiders fell from horseback, blood dashing from their temples, and their horses cantered off into the swamp, braying in alarm. Arthur slung his gun back into its holster, kneeling next to Rane. She was sitting up laboriously, her mouth pulled back into a sneer of pain.

"Hey, take it easy, hold on, there -"

“Son of a bitch! That _hurts_!” She pulled up her shirt, peering down at herself. Blood was seeping from the wound steadily. "I mean, that _really_ fucking _hurts_!"

“You got shot, you idiot, of course it hurts." Arthur grasped her shoulder, looking down at her in real alarm. Christ, but this morning had been a shitshow. “Here, come on, you're alright. Come here. It ain’t deep.”

As Arthur pulled her to her feet, she peered over his shoulder, her brow furrowing.

“Shit. Arthur, we've got company.”

Arthur turned toward Shady Belle. There were more Raiders striding out of the house to meet them, guns in hand. He cursed himself silently. They’d strayed far too close and gotten wrapped up in their hollering and carrying on, and now the whole goddamned place was privy to their presence.

"Shit. _Fuck_." Arthur pulled his gun, using his spare hand to steady Rane at his side. "What the hell's wrong with me? I know better than this -!"

“I’m fine, get off,” said Rane sharply, shoving his arm away from her and wobbling alarmingly for a moment.

“You ain't fine, you're shot, you goddamned fool -”

“I’m fine. Just come on.” Rane was clutching her side with one hand, her face contorted, blood seeping from beneath her hand. She wasn’t - she thought the bullet had grazed her lung, judging by the labored way her breath was coming - but she wasn’t about to tell Arthur this. It could be dealt with later. “They’re gunning for us. Is this the place you and Dutch were talking about?”

“Yeah.” Arthur was still looking at her with sharp concern. “Rane -”

“I’m fine, I said.” Bullets whined overhead of them, and Arthur ducked. “Come on, let’s go get this fucker.”


	19. Lemoyne Raiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane is shot during the trip to Shady Belle, and Arthur and John finally come to blows.

_There'll be oats in the water_   
_There'll be birds on the ground_   
_There'll be things you never asked her_   
_Oh how they tear at you now_   
_Go your way_   
_I'll take the long way 'round_   
_I'll find my own way down_   
_As I should._

**\- Ben Howard**

____________

The Lemoyne raiders were out in full force, but Rane was holding her own, and Arthur, both guns in his hands, watched her progress with unfiltered impress. He had never seen her in a true battle before - even John Marston hadn’t seen it, not in its full form - but he saw it now. She was bleeding freely from the wound in her chest, her side shining damp with blood from beneath her ribs to the thigh of her jeans, but she advanced nonetheless, wand and sword in hand, and when bullets flew their way the blade spun before her in a flash, circling her wrist and throwing sunlight off its shaft. Seeing their approach, the Raiders on the lawn were retreating to the house itself. There was a tinkle of breaking glass as they elbowed out the windows.

"Who are these guys? Do you know?"

“Lemoyne raiders. Confederate vets and pissed off young fellers, most of 'em.” Arthur pointed toward the upper half of the house, taking care not to let his wrist stray too near the line of her sword's movements. “There’s one up there in the upstairs window that keeps poppin' up to look, watch yourself.”

“HOMENUM REVELIO!” Rane said loudly, aiming her wand at the house, and then turned to Arthur, stuffing it into her pocket and clutching her sword with both hands. “There’s only five of them, we can take them. Come on. Stay behind me and shoot, I’ll cover you.”

"You're injured, Rane."

Rane glanced at him long-sufferingly. Despite her cocked eyebrow and grim smirk, her face was cheesy pale. "I'm fine, just do what I say. It's just five dudes, Arthur, that's peanuts."

Arthur reluctantly fell a step behind her, feeling out of sorts. He had never had a woman protect him during a raid, least of all with a weapon like that. This was all so strange. Rane strode on, stumbling a little and clutching her side with her spare hand, her breathing harsh, and Arthur watched her with a combination of anxiety and genuine fascination. The Raiders were hanging out of the windows now, firing with abandon, the sound deafening, but not a single one landed home. Her motions were so fast, so intuitive, that it was as if she could read their minds; no sooner had they sprung out of cover and aimed that her sword was flying before her, sending the bullets whistling off into the air, seeming to move with an effortlessness that bordered on lazy. He had held that sword, put it at seven, maybe eight pounds, and this girl who might have tipped the scales at a hundred and forty soaking wet was twirling it around one-handed like it was made of cardboard. While gutshot, no less.

Arthur took out four of them, shooting from the hip, and the remaining one vanished from the windows at this, ducking out of sight..

“Where’d that last one get off to?” Arthur muttered as they reached the porch.

"Is there a back door?" Rane asked, sheathing her sword, trying not to brush it against her wound.

"Yeah, there's a back door." Arthur gestured vaguely, catching his breath. "It's in the back, as you might imagine."

“So maybe he pissed off after he saw all his buddies shot up,” Rane's breathing was still coming in quick, harsh gasps, Arthur noted with some dismay, and her hand was gloved with her own blood up to the wrist. Her jeans were soaked in it almost to the knee. Maybe she was shot worse than he’d thought. “Let's go see if he's hiding in there."

"Or hey, I got an idea, how 'bout _Arthur_ goes and sees if he's hiding in there, and _Rane_ plants her shot-up ass on that chair right over there and waits for him to get done?" Arthur countered, flapping a hand at the rocker next to the door.

Rane shouldered her way past him, rolling her eyes, and strode through the door, still clutching her side. The answer they were seeking made itself known pretty fast; the remaining Raider was right there, back pressed against the wall, inches from the doorway with his pistol drawn Before Rane or Arthur could do much of anything he’d belted her across the face with the butt of his gun, and Rane fell to the ground, blood dashing from her mouth and smattering on the dusty wood floor.

“There he is,” she gasped. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

The man’s pistol flew from his hand and landed on the other side of the room, bouncing with a clatter off the wall. Arthur aimed from the hip and caught the man in the forehead, the crack of his gun incredibly loud in the little room, and he fell face-first onto the floor without further fanfare.

“Christ, I don’t know how I feel about the manners on some of these guys,” Rane muttered, wiping at her mouth and examining the blood on the back of her hand with dismay.

“Well, he won’t make that mistake again, if it's any consolation,” Arthur remarked grimly, holstering his gun. “Nah, nah,” he added as Rane made as if to get to her feet. He knelt beside her and pressed her gently back down. “You stay put a minute, you’re gutshot.”

“He just winged me, Arthur, don’t get all weird about it -”

“You ain't winged,” Arthur replied gruffly. He pulled up the hem of her shirt, revealing a dark wound high up on the flatness of her belly, leaking blood steadily down between the ripple of her ribs. Her skin was crusted over with it already. Arthur prodded around the entry point for a moment, frowning, then sighed roughly, shaking his head and looking up at her with a touch of fear. “That’s a lungshot, Rane. I seen ‘em before."

Rane snorted, her teeth red with her own blood, turning her wry grin into a grim rictus. "What are you, a doctor? How do _you_ know where my lungs are?"

Arthur touched her ribs lightly on the unhurt side, running his fingers up toward her shoulder. "Lungs here." He traced the base of her sternum. "Liver here." Finally, he tapped her just below her left breast with two gentle fingers. "Heart here. I killed a lot of folks, Rane. A lungshot will kill ya slow, but it'll kill ya just the same."

"Your knowledge of gross anatomy is super sexy. I'm kind of turned on."

"Can you fix it?”

Rane sighed, peering down her chin at herself. “Yeah, just . . . ugh . . . it’s a weird angle. Wish I had a mirror.” She lifted her wand, her breath still coming in rough gasps, and noted the weakness in her arm. Arthur was right, and she was going to have to be quick about this. “I’m not trying to die today so if I pass out you slap the shit out of me until I come around, don’t be shy. _Sigillum malam_.”

She waved her wand in an ornate motion over her torso, but nothing seemed to happen. She cursed, low.

“Shit. That’s not the right fucking movement, hang on . . . “

She shut her eyes for a moment, moving her wand in a little semi-circle and mouthing silently, trying to remember how it went, and Arthur felt another low lick of fear. Her face was pale.

“Come on, girl,” he muttered.

“I got it. Shush. _Sigillum malam_.”

And to Arthur’s intense relief, it worked. The wound sealed itself, and the blood running down Rane’s side slowed and then stopped. He leaned back, his head rolling on his shoulders, letting his pounding heart slow.

“Christ. You had me worried for a second there.”

“Guess I can strike ‘getting shot’ off of the ol’ bucket list,” said Rane grimly. She was sitting up, touching her side tentatively. "Nowhere near as cool as I thought it would be, by the way."

“Well, I’m glad you think it’s so goddamned funny, gettin’ gutshot and almost bleedin’ out on the floor -”

“I think it is the absolute _height_ of hilarity, that’s right,” said Rane drolly, smirking at him. And when he continued to frown at her: “Oh, chill out, I was gonna be fine, Arthur. I’m just a little rusty, is all.”

They looked at one another for a moment, Rane sitting up on her elbows with her long legs strewn before her and her tousled hair in her face, Arthur squatted on his hunkers, one elbow resting on his knees, his hat tipped back. He was watching her, his face long with anxiety.

“You were really worried, weren’t you?” she remarked abruptly, her smile fading.

“I swear, I tell ya I love ya and I just about lose you a hundred damn times right off the get-go,” Arthur replied, low.

Rane stared at him for another moment, then leaned forward and kissed him, putting her arms around his neck, her palms slipping against the sweat there, pulling him close. He exhaled against her mouth, his hands straying to her back, gentle, avoiding where she was hurt with a tenderness that went coarsely against the grain of his ruthless nature. Rane felt a swell of emotion in her chest bloom like a flower, overshadowing the dull pain beneath her ribs like an eclipse. _Lose you_ , he’d said. Like she was his own.

They were sitting there on the hardwood floor of Shady Belle, twined around one another, when both of them became aware of a presence on the porch. It was boot heels, loud and brash; whoever was responsible for them was making no attempt to conceal the sound. The two of them broke apart, Rane going for her sword and Arthur for his gun, both expecting a final Lemoyne raider.

John Marston stood there, looking between them, his fingers linked in his belt loops and the afternoon sun streaming around him. Charles Smith was approaching on his heel some ways behind, freshly dismounted and looking concerned, walking quickly toward them from where they'd left their horses. Arthur got to his feet hastily, and so did Rane.

“Hey,” said Arthur gruffly, sounding inanely casual, as if they’d happened upon each other in a goddamned shopping mart or something. It was such an absurd thing to say in that moment that it was almost comedic.

“'Hey?' That all you got to say to me?” said John. He pulled his hat off and tossed it onto the ground, slinging it to his left like a Frisbee. Rane saw with a jolt that he was utterly furious. His eyes were bright and cold and full of rage. “ _Hey_?”

“John.” Charles had reached the porch and placed a hand on John’s shoulder, a little winded. “John, dammit, just _hang_ on, I said -”

John shook his hand off roughly, advancing on Arthur. “You son of a _bitch!_ After all that hell you gave me -!”

“John, listen, now, I know how that musta looked to you -”

"How should it have looked? Huh? How _should_ it have looked, Arthur? What _should_ I be thinkin'?"

“John -” Arthur sighed roughly, his face red, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. “Listen, this ain’t how I wanted it to go -”

John placed both his hands on Arthur’s chest and pushed him hard. Arthur staggered backward, boots skidding on the wood. “You KNEW how I felt about her, Arthur -!”

“John, it ain’t _like_ that, now just hang on a second!” Arthur said. His voice had risen and he was reclaiming some of his poise now that the initial surprise of seeing John there was beginning to fade. “What the hell are y’all doin’ here anyway?”

“Dutch sent us to check on you,” said John. His voice was loud in the little room. “Make sure you wasn’t shot or somethin’. What, you upset your little goddamned tryst got interrupted?”

“John, please.” Charles touched his shoulder again, his voice low and placatory. Rane was standing where she was, frozen, paralyzed by shame and humiliation. “Take a breath and calm down. We got a job to do, it ain't gonna do you no favors to lose your head -”

John shook him off again and pointed at Arthur. His nose was wrinkled, his mouth turned down into a sneer of fury and perfidy. “After all that shit you gave me when we got back from that Pinkerton camp, Arthur, and I walk in on you and her like that, you _knowin’_ how I felt for her good and goddamned well -!”

“I didn’t know no such thing,” said Arthur, but it was a weak excuse, and John knew it. He laughed roughly.

“You weren’t never any good at lyin’, you two-timin’ bastard, and you ain't no good at it now -!”

“Now wait just a goddamned _minute_!” Arthur seemed to swell at hearing this, his eyes flashing. He pulled his hat off and cast it aside, sending it skittering across the floor, his blue eyes glinting in the dim of the house. “She don’t belong to you, John Marston, so there ain’t nothin’ to two-time! Moreover, you got a damn wife and _child_ back there at camp -!”

“DON’T YOU BRING ABIGAIL INTO IT!” John shouted, his face reddening. “YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

“You two need to stop this,” said Charles roughly, but John shook him off once again.

“WELL MAYBE SOMEBODY _OUGHTA_ BRING ABIGAIL INTO IT!” Arthur shouted at John. “YOU THINK SHE DON’T KNOW? HELL, ANY DUMBASS OFF THE STREET CAN SEE IT!”

John leveled his finger at Arthur, shaking his head, his mouth turned down into a sneer. When he spoke it was quick and cold, as if he’d been waiting to say this for some time and was finally able to level his accusation.

“You and her,” he said, his voice low. “When you went to fence them horses, you had her then. Didn’t ya? Ain’t that why you didn’t get back ‘til nightfall?”

“Now, just hang on a second -”

“Nah, don’t you start in with your horseshit, I seen it in your goddamned FACE, Arthur, you couldn’t quit lookin’ at her even with Dutch right there starin’ at the pair of you, I thought your damn eyes was gonna fall outta your _head_ -!”

“That ain’t -” Arthur sighed again, looking distraught. “That don’t have nothin’ to _do_ with -!”

John shoved Arthur again roughly. “A DAY AFTER ME? KNOWIN’ HOW I FELT FOR HER? THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, YA SICK SON OF A BITCH?”

“You best quit pushin’ me around, Marston, ‘less you wanna get hit,” said Arthur, his voice dangerous.

“You wanna hit me, old man?” said John, and shoved at his chest again, his eyes insolent and angry on Arthur’s. “You ain’t got it in you, damn blusterin’ old fool -!”

“Hey, HEY!” Rane said loudly, stepping forward. Both John and Arthur looked at her. “You guys need to take this shit down a notch, Jesus Christ, we can talk like adults if -!”

“Oh, I don’t even wanna _hear_ it from you, you’re crooked and false up to your goddamned eyeballs!” said John, leveling a finger and stepping toward her. His eyes were full of rage and pain, and Rane felt her heart falter in her chest at the sight of it. She’d hurt him badly with this. His voice dropped a little. “You laid down with me in that damn bed in Saint Denis and listened to what I said to you, and slept by my side, and not _once_ did it occur to you to tell me you were about to jump ship for _this_ cranky old son of a bitch -?”

“ _Jump ship_? John, you just met me a _week_ ago, what are you -?”

“Oh, don’t START WITH THAT SHIT!” John said loudly, glaring at her. “You KNEW I cared for ya, I said it to you right out loud, but it didn’t stop you from hopping in bed with that old damned fucker over there, did it? Why the hell didn’t you _say_ somethin’?”

"I should have, but I was a chickenshit, and I'm sorry,” said Rane, looking up at him frankly. “John, your _wife_ turned up the next morning, what was I supposed to -?”

“She ain’t my wife.”

“You know what I mean.” Rane stared up into his face, not backing away. “I met your kid, John. That woman’s his mom, either way, me getting into the middle of all this, it isn't any good for them, or for you -”

“So you turn tail and run straight to Arthur,” said John coldly. “He got somethin’ I don’t? That it? Or is it that he‘s just a better lay. Got it where it counts. Since you seem to care so goddamned much about that.”

Rane's face reddened at this, her eyes growing cold.

“You’re being a real asshole right now,” she said, low.

John spread his arms expansively. “Hey, you know what? Maybe you oughta see how Dutch is next, then maybe you can cut out on Arthur and be the new goddamned Molly O’Shea. Or maybe Javier, he ain't made no secret about wantin' you. Or Kieran, or Micah. Shit, make your way around the whole goddamned gang same as Abigail, why the hell not. Just roll one to t'other like a tumbleweed, see where ya end up, huh?”

“That’s how you talk?” said Rane, glaring up at him, anger flashing in her eyes now.

“Just about.”

Rane leaned toward him, leveling her finger at him and bringing her face close, her eyes flickering between his, and when she spoke her voice was low and harsh. “You like to make it sound like you were just an innocent fucking bystander, John Marston, but you got after it just as quick as I did, and _I’m_ not the one with a kid and a lady. So you don’t get to pass judgment on me and make-believe all high and mighty, especially with the pair of them turning up the next day -!”

“Oh, hell. You _know_ why it was wrong, what you did. You _know_.” John shook his head. “You told me all them purty things by the river and I listened and believed ‘em. I guess I’m a goddamned fuckin’ idiot. Probably Arthur is too.”

Rane wilted slightly at this, her face falling. John gazed down at her, breathing roughly, his brows knitted.

“John -” Rane sighed, scrubbing at her face with frustration. “I’m trying to take this one on the chin, man. I know I fucked up, I should have told you, but it happened so fast, and I just . . . I don’t understand it, it just _is_. I’m sorry. I really am. But I can't help how I feel.”

“So you love him.” John gestured at Arthur, his eyes hard on hers. “You known us both for a week but you know you love him and not me.”

Rane lifted her hands and let them drop at her sides, shaking her head. “I can’t help it, John.”

John shook his head, staring down at her, and she was startled to see the emotion glimmering in his eyes. If she’d had any doubt about how he felt for her, she didn’t have to wonder now. A week or a decade, it made no difference; what had taken hold in him was just as authentic either way.

“You broke my fuckin’ heart,” he said, low, his voice rough with emotion. “You did.”

He turned from her, his mouth still curved down, and without warning slung a left hook at Arthur, who was quite unprepared for it. Arthur caught it in the mouth and stumbled backwards, shocked. And then John was on him, fists flying, and it was fully blown.

Charles was starting forward at once. “Hey! God dammit, knock it off! I SAID KNOCK IT OFF!”

Both Arthur and John ignored him; they had staggered against the far window, the sounds of their boots skidding across the wood floor loud, Arthur clutching at John’s shirt and staving off the blows, John letting his fists fly, his face contorted, his dark hair in his face. Charles attempted to get between them and was flung off with impunity, sending him into the wall, arms flailing.

“QUIT IT!” he roared. “GODDAMNED IDIOTS -!”

There was a loud bang, and Arthur and John flew onto their asses, skidding away from each other. Rane stood over them, her wand drawn, glaring, her long hair swinging around her face.

“He said knock it off!” she said roughly. “Both of you guys, chill the fuck out! That’s enough!”

John got up, brushing off his jeans, staring at her with real enmity. His nose was bleeding and his eyes were damp and bright as he looked into Rane’s. He advanced on her until they were chest to chest, the smell of the tobacco on his breath hot and close, handsome and hurt in the shadow of Shady Belle, the blood beneath his nose bright and shining. His lower lip was trembling a little when he spoke.

“I hope Dutch turns you loose,” he said coldly, and turning strode out of the house, his loping gait taking him past the dooryard, pausing only to bend at the waist and snatch up his hat mid-stride from the porch. Rane watched him go, her wand falling to her side and her mouth turned down. When he reached Old Boy he climbed onto his back, brushing absently at his face with his sleeve, and kicked him into a gallop, riding off, dust flying at his heels.

Charles looked at Arthur, who was arming blood from the corner of his mout and getting laboriously to his feet.

“You’re a piece of work,” he said harshly.

“ _Me_? The hell you goin’ after _me_ for?” Arthur cast him an injured look.

Charles said nothing, merely glared at Arthur, shaking his head slightly. His expression was utterly disapproving.

“You takin’ _his_ side in all this?” Arthur asked him loudly, gesturing after John.

“I think you know what I mean, Arthur.” Charles turned his eyes to Rane. "Both of you. That was a lowdown thing to do."

He looked between them a moment longer, then turned and began out of Shady Belle.

“Charles -”

“I’m goin’ to tell Dutch she’s ready,” Charles said without turning, lifting one hand at his side. "Don't say no more. I heard enough of it from him on the way over here."

Arthur wilted, watching his back diminish, then turned to Rane. She met his eyes, frowning. He was bleeding from the cheek.

“Think we’re in trouble,” she said, low.

“Yeah, I believe you might be right,” said Arthur, and sighed. “I believe so.”


	20. Moving to Shady Belle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang fixes to move spots, and Dutch calls for men and women to ride with him to Saint Denis to rob the bank for enough to skip out on the coast.

_We're the lawless brigade_   
_Up all night, up all night_   
_We're the lawless brigade_   
_Up all night and no strain._

**\- UNKLE**

_________

The ride back to Shady Belle was long, mostly silent and horribly uncomfortable. Rane and Arthur rode side by side, both feeling as shameful as the next. Above them, the afternoon wore on heedless of the discomfiture beneath, warm and sunny and gorgeous, rife with a brisk breeze that seemed to herald an approaching rain, redolent with pollen and oak. Geese rode the skies over them, calling hoarsely, and the horses looked anxiously toward the swamps as they clopped along, ears pricked and eyes keen, watching the alligators basking along the water’s edge as they went with clear distaste.

Arthur glanced sidelong at Rane several times, opening his mouth, but he could never quite bring himself to say anything. Part of it was the set of her body, clearly sheepish and unhappy. She sat astride her horse, her hips rocking back and forth with the motion of its cadence, jeans stained with drying blood from her wound, her hair thrown back in the wind and her brows dark and knitted. He had never seen a woman who looked more guilty, and he understood all too well how she felt. Had he ever before hurt John as badly as he obviously had today? Arthur wasn't sure, but he was dubious. They'd gone after one another plenty of times growing up like any young men would, and there had been at least three or four real fist-throwing skirmishes like the one this afternoon, but had the passions of those fights ever run this high? And had they ever arisen over a girl? Arthur didn't think so.

"This is all my fault," he said at last, pacing her.

Rane snorted derisively. "And what kind of mental gymnastics did you do to arrive at _that_ conclusion, twinkletoes?"

"It's just like I said before. He's my brother, I shoulda known better. I _did_ know better."

"This is a hundred and fifty percent on me, Arthur. You're just collateral damage."

"Is that a fact?"

Rane extended a hand and began to tick off on her fingers. "I got loaded and fucked John about four hours after I met him, then I said a bunch of dumb drunk shit to him that I didn't mean, then I fucked _you_ within like twelve hours of _that_ , then I got drunk _again_ and said _more_ dumb drunk shit that I didn't mean to John, _then_ I caused a massive argument between him and his motherfucking _wife_ because I couldn't keep my _mouth_ shut -"

"Oh, fucking hell, Rane. You get the nails and I'll get the cross." Arthur was laughing, shaking his head. "We both knew what we were doing, this ain't all on you. I've known him longer and I knew he liked you when I kissed you the first time. Knew it double bad when I went inside you, if you wanna get nasty about it. Still went ahead with it, though."

"So what you're saying is that we're both assholes," said Rane dryly.

"I'm sayin' done bun can't be undone," said Arthur, and sighed. "I feel just as shitty about it as you do, but slinging shit at one another probably won't make John feel any better. And anyways, it ain't like either one of us can just pretend nothing is there. Especially now."

"I feel like a fucking asshole," Rane remarked.

Arthur sighed. "Yeah, me too. And I got the fat lip to prove it," he added, touching his bloodied, swollen mouth tentatively. "I ain't been knocked around like that by John Marston in years. Guess I deserved it."

“We’re gonna get yelled at, aren’t we?”

“Oh.” Arthur shook his head, laughing grimly. “I have no doubt about it.”

He wasn’t wrong. When they rode into camp and hitched their horses, Dutch was already glowering over at them, arms crossed across his broad chest, looking like nothing so much as a parent about to chastise his wayward kids. John and Hosea were standing near his tent, and the camp was in a state of breakdown. It was clear they were fixing to move.

“Arthur, get over here,” said Dutch loudly when he saw the two of them riding in. He looked pissed. “Right fuckin’ now.”

“Go help Miss Grimshaw pack up,” said Arthur, lifting his chin toward camp. “I expect I got a tongue-lashin’ in store.”

Rane cast a final look at John, who was following her with his eyes, unsmiling, then turning strode off. Arthur approached the three of them, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Hey, Dutch,” he muttered.

“Hey yourself,” said Dutch. He gestured at John. “Mister Marston here tells us you and young Miss Roth cleared out Shady Belle, and he also says that he came upon a pretty surprising little scene when he rode up.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” said Arthur, looking crossly at John. “Pray tell.”

“From the sound of it, him and Charles caught you at a bit of a disadvantage this mornin’,” said Hosea grimly. “You got anything you wanna share with the rest of us, Arthur?”

Arthur tipped his hat back, rubbing his forehead. “Not particularly, no.”

“Arthur, we _just talked_ about this,” said Dutch, shaking his head. “Not three days back, we did. I _told_ you boys then that I didn’t want either one of ya getting mixed up with her, and here we are, the _both_ of you -!”

“The hell’s it matter anyways?”

“That’s big talk for you after all your spouting off about not knowin’ her from Eve,” said John flatly.

“Hey, Marston, maybe you done just about enough talkin’ for one day,” Arthur said, giving him a dark look. “You’re gonna wear yourself out with all that thinkin’ you been doing today -”

“Don’t mince your words, Arthur Morgan,” said Hosea sharply. “We oughta know. That’s just business.”

Arthur sighed, looking defeated.

"Look, what do you want me to say?" he asked, looking nonplussed. "I like her and she likes me, that's the long and short of it. I can't exactly just turn it off."

"You son of a bitch," John muttered, glaring at him. "'Can't exactly turn it off.' Mouthy, dirty fuckin' asshole."

Arthur glanced at him, reddening a little and averting his eyes. Dutch was pinching the bridge of his nose, looking weary and annoyed.

“Goddammit, Arthur.” Dutch sighed. “I told ya I didn’t want that girl compromised, and this ain’t exactly the best time for you boys to be fightin’ with each other over it -”

“We ain’t fightin’.”

“Yeah, well the faces on the both of you say otherwise,” said Hosea, flapping a hand at them. “Bruised and bleedin’ halfway down your fronts and pissed off as a couple of damn schoolkids -”

“We ain’t fightin’,” Arthur repeated steadily. “It’s done and over with and it is what it is. I can’t help it, and nor can she.”

Dutch looked between Arthur and John, his eyes hard. “I don’t need the pair of you falling off over a woman right now -”

“Well, that’s an easy fix,” said Arthur, and gestured to the far end of the camp. “His goddamn wife and boy are right over there. He’s got enough to be worryin’ about without adding a young woman into the mix.”

“Don’t you start back up,” John snapped.

“Alright, enough,” said Dutch, shaking his head and looking weary. “I can see there ain’t nothin’ I’m gonna be able to do about this, so you two fools are just gonna have to sleep in the beds you made. But if I catch so much as a _whiff_ of her losin’ her spine because she's getting all damp in the britches.” he added coolly, “that’s your ass, Arthur Morgan. That girl is useful and I want her sticking around. So don’t you fuck this up. Neither of you.”

Arthur lifted both hands palms-out, shaking his head. “Fine. Whatever you say.”

“What’s the state of Shady Belle?” Dutch asked, massaging the bridge of his nose and looking exhausted.

“Ready.” Arthur shifted his weight, linking his hands in his belt loops and pointedly ignoring John’s cold glare. “Me and Rane cleared them raiders out. It’s a nice enough place, lot of room out back and the house seems pretty sturdy for the moment.”

Dutch jerked his chin. “Why’s she all bloodied up? She get into the fray while you two were going at it or something?”

“Gutshot on the way in. She’s fine,” Arthur added as John and Hosea both looked concerned. “It was messy, is all. First time I ever saw somebody standing upright and sniffing the air a good five minutes after a bullet through the lungs, matter of fact.”

"I assume she patched herself up."

"That she did. Shit, if we'd had her at Blackwater we all might be living the high life right about now, is what I think."

“Well, while you and your sweetheart were out making eyes at each other,” said Dutch, “me and Hosea have caught onto a lead. I'm leaving Missus Grimshaw to get everybody else over to our new spot. The rest of us got work to do this afternoon.”

“What lead?”

“Rane!” said Dutch, raising his voice and looking over Arthur’s shoulder, beckoning. Rane, who was bent pulling a tent post from the ground next to Susan Grimshaw, looked up. “Get over here a second, please, ma'am!”

“It’s a good one,” Hosea said, looking at Arthur. “Real good. Might be our last one.”

“ _Definitely_ will be our last one,” Dutch corrected him. “The last score we need to make before our early retirement, gentlemen. Miss,” he added, nodding to Rane as she drew near.

Rane drew near, her boots thudding on the grass, hair rippling. “You wanted me?”

“Miss Roth, we are fixin’ to rob a bank this day,” said Dutch. “And I am gonna need your help.”

“Rob a _bank_?” Rane glanced from Dutch to Hosea. “Jesus Christ, is that really something you guys do?”

“Jesus Christ don't much factor into it,” said John gruffly, pulling a smoke and lighting it, looking into the distance. Hosea laughed grimly.

“Dutch, you ain’t thinking of taking Saint Denis, surely not.” Arthur was looking at him warily, his eyes bright and blue beneath the rim of his hat. “That place is _crawlin’_ with law, especially midday.”

“Well,” said Dutch, clapping Rane on the shoulder genially. “Luckily we got somethin’ they don’t.”

  
  


THE camp was set to move out by the time Dutch was prepared to ride. He’d insisted that all of them - Bill, Lenny, Charles, Micah, John, Hosea, Arthur, Javier, Abigail and Rane - get spiffed up, and Susan Grimshaw had found Rane a dress from her stash, something Rane balked at.

“Do I have to?” she said, looking at Dutch. “Christ, I _hate_ dresses, I can't ride for shit -”

“You do as I say,” Dutch had told her sternly, “we gotta look like upstanding men and women and you got blood from God only knows who all up and down you. Go see Miss Grimshaw, she’ll fix you up. Go on, now.”

So she had, reluctantly. When she’d emerged from Susan’s tent amidst the camp packing up and rolling out, flipping the flap aside irritably, all eight of the men waiting at the hitching post fell silent and simply stared. Arthur felt his heart do a curious little flip-flop in his chest at the sight of her. Susan had chosen a black bodice for her, and it clung closely to her lean torso, the neckline plunging down past her collarbones, the afternoon sunlight glistening off her bare shoulders. She’d tied her hair back into a knot at the top of her head and buckled her swordbelt over her dress at her trim waist, making the sight of her weirdly ridiculous, a combination of Victorian elegance and warrior. From the way she plucked at her sleeves and the wavery, uncouth way she was walking, it could not have been clearer that she was massively uncomfortable, but Arthur would have happily gawked at her all day anyways. She was so goddamned beautiful that it felt like the breath had been snatched right out of his chest. Even Micah was watching her draw near with his mouth hanging slightly open.

“Holy hell,” said Lenny lightly. “I guess the view ain’t so awful.”

Abigail, who was sitting astride a wagon pulled by a pair of heavy brown stallions next to Hosea, glared down at John. He was gaping at Rane with an expression of unfiltered, almost comedic awe.

“You’d put your damn eyes back in your head if you knew what was good for you."

John averted his gaze, reddening a little. “I ain’t even doin’ nothin’, Abigail.”

“Like hell you ain’t, ya damn pig.”

“You two quit it,” said Hosea sharply, looking over at her. “We got work to do.”

“Well, Lenny ain’t wrong,” said Javier, looking aft, his eyes glittering. “I ain’t seen a prettier sight since I don’t even know when.”

“Watch your mouth,” Arthur murmured, low, glancing sidelong at him. Javier did, but he was grinning, still looking at Rane as she drew near, his dark eyes glimmering.

“Is this okay?” Rane asked, approaching Dutch and spreading her arms.

Dutch looked at her for a moment, bug-eyed and almost comically tongue-tied. Arthur could have laughed, and he saw Hosea looking at this with shrewd amusement as well.

“Yeah, that’s . . . that’ll do,” he said at last, shaking his head.

Arthur wolf-whistled between two fingers, grinning. Javier and Lenny both burst out laughing. Rane cast him a dire look.

"I like your dime suit, boy," she remarked, imitating his accent and smirking. "How much you want for it?"

"More than you can afford to spend, honey."

"Oh, _children_ ," Abigail snapped, rolling her eyes. Lenny and Javier were still laughing.

“Grab a saddle,” said Dutch, red to the roots of his hair. "Jesus Christ in heaven, the type of shit I put up with."

It was easier said than done. Rane Roth, who had been raised on Elven horseback since she was knee high to a grasshopper, had spent most of her life in a pair of jeans and quickly discovered that getting aboard a mount wearing a dress like this was nothing to sneeze at.

“Need help?” Arthur asked her at length from horseback, watching her struggle with droll amusement.

“No,” Rane retorted, glowering at him over her shoulder, strands of hair wavering around her face. “No, I do _not_ need _help_ -!”

“Only askin’ ‘cuz you look like you’re havin’ a hard time, is all -”

“Shush, Arthur. I’m fine, I’ve been climbing onto horses since I was scarce-hipped and two feet high. Piss off, why don’t you.”

Arthur shut up, smirking at her as she grasped arduously at the horse’s side, feet flailing. After a few bad tries she finally managed to struggle up, grasping the saddle horn, the horse pawing uneasily as she did, and slung her leg over the other side, yanking at the dress to get her boots into the stirrups and exposing enough thigh to draw several keen male glances again.

“So what exactly are we going to do?” Rane asked, reeling the horse around and following Dutch and the others as they rode out of Clemens Point, smoothing her skirts, a little pink-faced.

“Hosea here is gonna take Abigail and cause a distraction across town,” said Dutch from up ahead. “That’ll draw the law away a little bit, ‘least long enough to get us indoors. Then, Miss Roth, you’re gonna open them safes for us and we’re gonna rob old Uncle Sam blind. _That’s_ what we’re gonna do. And then we’re all gonna get the hell outta here.”

There was a rumble of appreciative laughter at this. Abigail continued to stare ahead stonily, unsmiling.

“You got a spell for openin’ safes?” Micah asked, glancing at her and looking skeptical. “Or you just gonna bash it around with your sword?”

Rane cast him an affronted look .“What do I look like, a teenager? I can open up safes, yeah. What else? Is that it?"

“Well, I hope so,” said Dutch. “But I’d just as soon have you on your toes anyways. Same for the rest of you boys.”

“So what about the rest of us? Or we just gonna let the little lady do all the work for ya?” said Micah.

“Hosea and Abigail start a fuss, draw out the police, and we go in calm and fast,” said Dutch. He spoke stridently and with practiced ease, like a man reciting a speech, and Rane was reminded again of a politician. He had charisma coming out his ears, this man. “John and Lenny secure the back doors. Javier takes the side exit. Bill, Micah and Charles, control the crowd. Me and Arthur deal with the bank manager, and Rane deals with the vault. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Yep.”

“Gentlemen,” said Hosea, “we’re gonna ride on ahead, me and Abigail.”

“How long do you need?” Dutch asked him.

“Not long. Fifteen minutes or less. You’ll know by the noise. Any problems and we’ll see ya back at camp.”

“Good luck, gentlemen,” said Abigail, lifting one hand, and Hosea snapped the reins on their little wagon, teasing the two horses into a gallop and pulling ahead. Rane watched it diminish, her brow furrowed.

“Don’t think she likes you much at the moment,” said Lenny at her elbow, his voice low, casting her a sympathetic look. “Lotta talk ‘round camp this mornin’.”

“Yeah, well.” Rane sighed, snapping the reins. “I’ll try not to lose too much sleep over it.”

“Enough with that talk, Lenny, let her alone. Now, you all know the drill.” Dutch glanced at Rane from over his shoulder. “Miss Roth, I know you ain’t never pulled one of these off, but all these other boys have, so you stick close to Arthur and follow our lead.”

“Shouldn’t be too tough,” said John, low. Dutch either didn’t hear this or chose to ignore it.

“You just mind what he tells ya, and don’t lose your head.” Dutch laughed. “Though I’m told you ain’t much the type to lose your head, so maybe I’m worryin’ for nothin’ at all. I do gotta say.” He looked back at her again, his eyes roving over her face. “I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ you in action finally, after all my boys talkin’ ya up. See if you’re worth all the gab.”

“Well, then I guess I better put my trotting harness on,” said Rane, smirking. Micah rolled his eyes.

“He’ll be next, way he’s talkin’.”

“Shut up, Micah,” said Bill roughly.

“Yeah, that you better, girl,” Dutch was saying. His eyes lingered on Rane’s a moment longer, speculative, then turned back to the trail. “That you better.”

“What if there are people in there?” Rane asked a touch diffidently.

“Well, then we’ll deal with ‘em,” said Dutch, grim. “You ever killed a man, Rane? Besides them Pinkertons?”

“Mhmm."

“How many?”

“Enough.” Rane met Dutch’s eyes. "Too many, probably."

  
“Well, you might have to kill another one or two if they get outta hand. That’s the way this goes.” Dutch turned his eyes away. “You good, Bill?”

“Yep.” Bill Williamson was pacing Dutch, astride a massive fetlocked stallion the color of old wood. “Good as ever.”

“Then ride in with Charles,” said Arthur, waving a hand toward him. “We don’t wanna be seen headin’ in like some posse of country outlaws.”

“Come on, let’s ride!” said Dutch, his voice strident, and there was a cry of approval. Rane, silent, watched the back of him, considering him. She couldn’t shake the idea that she was witnessing an election event more so than a raid, in spite of herself. “The last score, boys! This is it!”


	21. The Bank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang rob the bank of Saint Denis, but there are complications

_So wake up sleepy one_   
_It's time to save your world_   
_You're where the wild things are_   
_Yeah, toy soldiers off to war..._

**\- Metallica**

___________

SAINT Denis was relatively slow for the late afternoon, and Rane was a little relieved to see it, not least of all because she had no doubt that there were MACUSA prowling around this city somewhere. The less people around for this, the better. She’d never been on this side of a true crime before - hell, she’d spent most of her adult career being the one who stopped this sort of thing from happening - and the realization of this fact brought a faint smile to her face as they drew near the center of town. Her father would have had some very choice words if he could see her now, trotting along behind a bunch of iron-wielding gauchos in ten-gallon hats, off to commit grand larceny. Christ, all this was strange.

Truthfully, between being kidnapped twice, shot, hired on as a tentative gun by a gang of outlaws and getting mixed up with Arthur and John, she hadn’t had much time to think about everything that was happening, and she found herself ruminating on it now, of all times. Memories were beginning to return to her, strange ones that sometimes made no sense. The night before, she’d dreamed of Remus Lupin, harried and filthy, with his narrow shoulders and his lank, flaxen hair and his kind grin, handsome and weary and bemused, always ready to offer up some obscure platitude for any situation. In her dream she saw him dying in front of her, struck down with a killing spell. It had been so clear she’d woken halfway convinced she was on the bridge of Hogwarts beneath the growing rain, and even the words that he’d said to her moments before he’d fallen, touching her cheek bracingly - _Enough, we haven’t finished yet_ \- rang in her ears as if he’d spoken them seconds ago. The heart-wrenching horror she felt as he collapsed at her feet, her closest friend, was fresh in her gorge when her eyes sprang open on the cot in Clemens Point, nauseating and close. And on the heels of it came the shock that she’d forgotten all about Remus until that morning, that he’d somehow just . . . just _slipped her mind._ Remus Lupin, a man with whom who she’d shared board and bottle for ages, a man who had held her against his chest and wept with her after Sirius had been killed. She couldn’t decide what was worse, the guilt that she could just forget all about him or the dull fear that she was losing her goddamned mind.

There were other snippets that were coming back to her, sometimes moments, other times, names - Iliwynn Talaeos, Bill Weasley, Albus Dumbledore, Neville Longbottom - but they were only that, pieces of a puzzle full of too many gaps to get the full picture. And the feeling of her own death, something so blurry she could only get the outlines of it - looking up at the early dawn, rain falling from the sky, faces around her, the sound of her father weeping. None of it made any sense in the current context. But she sensed that it could, if she continued to dig. It was there, all of it. Just buried. She felt sure of it.

“You okay?” Arthur asked at Rane’s side, making her jump a little. “You look like you’re miles away.”

“Yeah.” Rane looked at him, smirking. “Just thinking how pissed off my dad would be if he could see what I’m doing right now. Just . . . casually committing felonies. He’d put his foot so far up my ass I’d be able to polish his boots with my toothbrush.”

Micah and Lenny both burst out laughing at this from up ahead. Rane’s eyes remained on Arthur, a little smile playing about her face. He’d donned a dark gray suit, slicked his hair back, shaved, and eschewed his hat, and he looked impossibly handsome in the afternoon sunlight, not like a roughly-hewn outlaw but like a polished gentleman. She examined the angular jawline this had exposed, smooth and sharp, his eyes glittering beneath his brows, startlingly blue. The guy had no idea how good-looking he was, and it was a new phenomenon for Rane. Sirius had always known, had shamelessly wielded it on occasion, had even developed a reputation for his handsomeness, but Arthur Morgan . . . he was completely blind to it. Either no one had told him, or they had, and he had chosen not to believe them.

“What’re you lookin’ at me like that for?” he asked, catching her eye and smirking.

“Nothing,” said Rane, low. She cast her eyes towards John, who was riding beside Dutch, markedly out of earshot. “You clean up nice, is all.”

Arthur flushed, turning from her and clearing his throat.

“Yeah, well.” Arthur sounded gruff, and Rane smirked again to herself. “Anyway, this robbin’ shit, it ain’t nice but it’s gotta be done. It’ll be over with quick if it all goes right.”

“Well, things ain’t gone right much lately for us, _cabrón_ ,” said Javier grimly, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur. “From Blackwater on down. Were I you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up too much.”

“He ain’t lyin’,” John agreed glumly from up ahead.

“No, he ain’t,” Arthur agreed, low.

“Will you boys have a goddamned modicum of _faith_?” Dutch said stridently from up ahead, turning to them. He was heading the caravan, his horse’s coat gleaming beneath the sun, the chains on his vest glinting. “Go easy through town, now. Quit with all your carryin’ on. I see Hosea’s wagon up ahead, we’re nearly there.”

Rane peered ahead, her horse’s hooves clopping on the stone flagging beneath them. She could see the bank beyond, visible through the humid afternoon haze, crammed into the corner of a building.

“What happened in Blackwater?” she asked, looking at Javier curiously.

Javier pulled back on the reins, falling into step with her opposite Arthur and looking over at her.

“I’ll tell ya what happened in Blackwater, _mi corazon_ ,” he said, dropping his voice to a confidential murmur.

“Javier,” said Dutch warningly. “Don’t you evoke no evil right now, not on the cusp of it.”

“She oughta know, Dutch,” said Arthur. “‘Specially with her walkin’ into this blind. 'Sides, since when have we been superstitious?”

“Blackwater ain’t got nothin’ to _do_ with this, Arthur.”

“Nah, maybe not, but if you’re gonna talk about the good parts, you gotta talk about the bad ones too,” said Arthur, not standing down. His eyes were on Dutch’s back as he rode along, hips rocking with his horse, eyes blue and sharp. “It’s only fair she knows what she’s gettin’ into.”

“Arthur, she’ll run scared you start in with that -”

“No, I won’t,” said Rane, quiet. “I promise I’ve seen worse.”

Dutch sighed, shaking his head, but he turned away and didn’t argue further. John was looking backwards at them, listening, his face long. Javier turned back to Rane, eyeing her from beneath his bowler.

“When you hear these boys talk about Blackwater, they mean about a ferry robbery couple months back, in a little town down southwest. It all went sideways, the law was onto us right off the get-go. Sold out or set on, made no difference.”

Rane was watching him. “What happened?”

“Shot up, _mi alma_ ,” Javier went on. “Rain of bullets to rival the veriest Summer hailstorm -”

“Why is it you always gotta recite like a damn poet about this shit?” John asked from up ahead, sounding grimly amused. "It was a fuckin' gunfight, just say it like that."

“Couple few of us taken in, one of ‘em tortured,” Javier went on, ignoring this. “We barely got out with our lives.”

“Matter of fact, some of us didn’t,” said Dutch from up ahead, head still turned from them. “God rest their souls.”

“Mac and Davey,” said Arthur, shaking his head. “Poor damn kids.”

“And Jenny,” said Lenny without looking back, his voice low.

“ _Si_ ,” Javier agreed, nodding. “Jenny, too, ‘lil thing we picked up on the side of the road, not much younger than you, _hermosa_. The law was on us quick. We had to run off into the Grizzlies to shake ‘em, _mi querida_. Snow up to our eyeballs for weeks, and no pretty little thing like you to warm us up with your fancy stick, or anyway else. Ain’t that right, Arthur?”

“Yeah, that’s right. And quit callin’ her that,” Arthur added suddenly, glancing sidelong at Javier warningly. “She ain’t your _querida_ , Javier.”

“ _Lo siento_ ,” said Javier, looking amused. “Just tellin’ the story, is all.”

“Hush, you lot. We’re comin’ up on it.” Dutch’s voice was low and cool. “Rane, ride on up here with me a sec. Arthur, you too.”

Rane kicked her horse into a canter, pacing Dutch. Arthur did the same on the opposite side of him.

“I gotta ask you, girl, for your protection,” said Dutch as she did, looking longways from his horse at her. He’d spiffed up for the event, and he looked handsome indeed, with his black curls falling from beneath his hat and his dark eyes flashing out at her, knowing and cool. Rane could see why Molly O’Shea guarded him so jealously in that moment; she was certain he commanded plenty of female gazes when he was left unchecked. “You afraid of what them boys told you?”

Rane paced him with her horse, shaking her head. “No.”

Dutch looked at her for a long moment, his eyes flicking over her face, assessing her.

“I ain’t never met a woman wasn’t scared in some way.”

“Well, you never met me.”

Dutch searched her with his eyes. She was tall, lean, beautiful on her horse, her long hair wavering before her face in the breeze cast by her horse and her eyes bright beneath her dark brows.

“No, I guess not,” Dutch said at last. He halted his horse, looking at her. “And before the sun sets you’ll show me. Won’t ya?”

"Hopefully I don't have to," said Rane, low, "but if need be, I guess so."

They dismounted and hitched their horses opposite the bank at the side of Hosea’s wagon, all of them strung up tight as guitar strings, Rane not least among them. Dutch alone seemed quite at his ease; he leaned against the fence at the side of the road, tipping his hat back, eyeing the building before them with all the polite interest of a man observing the curios in a museum.

“Here.” John touched Rane’s shoulder. He was holding a bandanna in his hand. “Take it. Cover up your face when it gets goin’ so we don’t have law on us later on.”

Rane took it, looking up at him. His eyes lingered on hers, and she reflected on him for a moment unhappily. He was terrible at concealing himself, even now, hours after the fact. The look on his face was wistful and wounded, the afternoon sun falling over him. He’d cleaned up for the event as well and without his hat he looked handsome and very young, his brows knitted and his dark hair swept back.

“John -”

“Take it,” said John, shaking the bandanna at her, his voice gruff. It hurt him to see her looking so beautiful, her hair tied back to expose the angles of her cheekbones and the black dress clinging to the arc of her long waist. Those eyes had looked into his while they lay face to face in an overpriced bed in this city not long ago, while he confessed his heart to her like the idiot he was, and the pain was still too near. “Go on, take it. I don’t wanna look at you no more.”

Rane was stung by this, but she took the bandanna. Before she could say any more, John turned away from her, moving toward Dutch, his shoulders hunched. She watched him slouch off, frowning.

“Leave him be, _mi querida_ ,” said Javier at her elbow, following her gaze. “A man refused ain’t one to bedevil, ‘specially by the one who done the refusin’.”

“I told ya to quit callin’ her that, Javier, don’t make me tell it again,” Arthur muttered opposite him. He was looking around warily, one hand on the butt of his revolver. “Where the hell are all the law? This is makin’ me nervous as hell.”

“Relax. They ain’t got no cause to be here yet,” said Dutch. He’d lit a cigarette and looked quite at his ease, the tendrils of smoke rising before his lips. “We’re just waitin’ for our sign.”

As if his words had summoned it, there was an explosion on the other end of the block, loud and echoing, sending a rise of black smoke into the air. Rane and Arthur both jumped, whirling around.

“ _Fuck_!” Rane gasped.

“Goddamn, I _love_ that Hosea!” Dutch cried merrily, starting for the bank. “Come on, you lot, let’s get this done!”

Rane started forward with the rest of them, still staring toward the explosion. Arthur grasped her elbow, looking at her.

“Just follow Dutch.” He pulled his bandanna over his mouth, his blue eyes flicking between hers. They were turned up a little; he was smiling. “Time to work.”

  
  


THE bank was as crowded, and when they entered Rane was disheartened by it. She glanced sidelong at Micah and Javier, both pointing guns toward them and shouting, and felt a little swoop of cold in her belly. They were outnumbered. She wondered if any of them were armed.

Rane drew her wand and pulled the bandanna John had given her over her mouth, doing a quick headcount as she approached, eyes flicking between them. Seven or eight, with another half dozen in the next room being rounded up by Bill and Javier. Arthur strode toward a suited man standing near the middle of the room and grasped his lapels roughly, throwing him toward the vault.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery,” Dutch was saying stridently. “You ain’t got nothing to worry about if you do just what we say.”

“Which one is the bank manager?” said Rane. She wanted to get this done quick, before someone decided to pull a gun and put a bullet in one of them.

“This fool right here,” said Arthur, toeing the cowing man on the floor before him with his boot. “Ain’t ya, you -”

“ _Stupefy maxima_!”

There was a bang and a brilliant flash of red light. Dutch, Bill, Micah and Charles staggered back, shouting in alarm, and Lenny actually fired an involuntary round into the ceiling, spraying flecks of wood everywhere. Everyone besides the teller beneath Arthur dropped to the floor, their limbs crumpling beneath them.

“What in the hell?” Bill said, his voice uncharacteristically faint. “What in the _hell_ -?”

Dutch’s eyes went from the Stupefied bank patrons now littering the floor to Rane, his mouth slightly agape.

“I told ya,” said Arthur, glancing over at him. “You believe me now, Dutch?”

“You killed ‘em! All of ‘em!” Micah said, his tone shocked and accusatory

“They’re just knocked out.” Rane was striding toward the teller, who looked up at her with clear terror. She drew her sword with a clang and rested its tip against his shoulder, eyeing him. “Now, if I wanted to _kill_ someone, I’d open up his throat with steel, see if he was the same color inside as he was out. Get up, honeybunch.”

For a moment the teller simply quivered on the floor, staring up at Rane, his hands held palms-out before him. Arthur clocked him on the side of the head with his pistol.

“Well you heard the lady, get the hell UP!” he roared, and the teller did, whimpering, still gazing at Rane’s blade with dizzy fear.

Dutch dragged his eyes from Rane with an effort, turning to the rest of the gang, all of whom were still watching her. “You boys quit gawkin’. That bullet Lenny put into the ceiling is liable to draw the law, I need you on your damn toes. John, you and Charles keep an eye on the street. Rest of you fellers start checkin’ these folks for valuables.”

“Can you open that thing?” Arthur asked Rane, tilting his head toward the vault. “Do we even need him?”

Rane placed a hand against the vault’s heavy door, then rapped sharply on it with her knuckles, producing a deep, resounding clank. “I don’t think so. Too big.”

“Well, then you best start gettin’ busy, boy,” Arthur snarled at the teller, and pulled the hammer back on his gun, aiming it at his head. “Open it.”

“With a quickness,” Rane added, “unless you want your inside to become outsides.”

  
  


THE teller was motivated enough, and a few moments later the vault door swung open with a creak. Arthur cracked him on the head with his pistol again, this time much harder, and he crashed to the ground, limbs akimbo.

“How we lookin’, Lenny?” Dutch said loudly as Arthur dragged the teller aside and dropped him unceremoniously on the floor.

“Nothin’ yet,” Lenny replied over his shoulder. “We oughta hurry, Dutch.”

“We been in here too damn long already,” Micah agreed.

“When are all these poor sods gonna wake up?” Bill asked. He and Charles were still searching the pockets of the Stupefied patrons littering the floor.

“Couple hours. Depends on -”

“Rane, hush up and get on in there! Open that big bastard up!” Dutch ordered sharply. “This ain’t the time for a damn anatomy lesson!”

Arthur tossed her a satchel which she caught, sheathing her sword. “Take all you can carry. Dutch and me’ll look through the drawers.”

Rane strode toward the safe, aiming her wand. “ _Alohomora_.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure it was going to work, but then it sprang open on its hinges, revealing stacks of bills. Rane knelt before it and began to shovel cash into the bag. Behind her, Dutch and Arthur were rifling through the many drawers along the walls.

“Think we got a problem out here!” John shouted suddenly.

“What?”

“Just get out here!”

Dutch, Arthur and Rane emerged from the vault, making their way to the window, where John and Charles were huddled against the wall, guns drawn, peering outside.

“DUTCH! GET OUT HERE! GET OUT HERE NOW!”

This voice was coming from the road. Rane took a spot next to Arthur, her wand at the ready, looking around the corner. Her heart sank. There were dozens of men outside the bank, all with weapons trained on them. One of them had Hosea by the wrist and was guiding him roughly into the road, a pistol aimed at his head. And at his side -

“John.” Rane looked over at him sharply. “Is that the guy that was in our room the other night?”

“Sure does look like him,” said John, low.

It was. Rane was almost positive. That horseshoe mustache was tough to forget. A moment later, she didn’t have to wonder anymore; she saw him draw his wand, keeping it low at his side, and twirl it surreptitiously. She couldn’t hear the words he spoke, but she could see them forming on his lips nonetheless: _praecano horribilis_.

“He knows I’m in here,” said Rane, low. “He just blocked anyone from performing magic.”

“ _What_?” Arthur looked at her sharply. “For how long?”

“Couple minutes. Long enough.”

“Somebody musta squealed,” said Dutch, drawing his revolver. He lifted his voice. “Mister Milton? Let my friend go, or folks, they are gonna get shot unnecessarily -!”

“Your friend? Why would I do that?” Milton cried back. The auror at his side stepped forward, and though he didn’t draw his wand, Rane could tell his fist was clenched around it in his pocket. She wasn’t sure if he would use magic against them once his curse subsided, especially in the presence of so many muggles, but she didn’t want to find out.

“There’s a girl with ya,” he said loudly. “Send her on out here too. We want ‘em both.”

Dutch’s eyes cut to Rane momentarily. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, mister -!”

“Harker. Percival Harker.” The auror continued to watch the windows of the bank warily. “And you don’t need to remember my name, boy. I get what I came for and I’ll be on my way.”

“What the hell does he want with you?” Dutch asked Rane.

“He’s MACUSA,” Rane muttered. “Magical law.”

“Dutch, I ain’t got much more patience for this shit!” Milton said loudly. He jerked Hosea roughly. “Come on out here nice and easy!”

“Milton -”

“No, Dutch! It’s over! No more bargains! No more deals!”

“Mister Milton, this is America! You can always cut a deal!”

“I’ve given you enough chances,” said Milton, and shoved Hosea into the street, his weapon leveled. Rane saw what was about to happen in Milton’s face a split second before it did, and her heart seemed to seize in her chest. She grasped Arthur’s wrist, her grip vicelike.

“Arthur -”

There was a moment in which Hosea simply stood in the road, moving toward the bank, as if trying not to bolt for its safety. Then Milton fired, the report loud, echoing. Blood dashed from Hosea’s chest, and he fell forward onto the stone flagging, his boots scrabbling in the dust, clutching himself.

“NO!” Dutch’s voice was rife with grief; there was none of his bluster and charisma now.

“GOD - _DAMMIT_!” Arthur bellowed at her side.

“There’s your deal, Dutch!” Milton was calling, his voice cold.

“GOD DAMMIT, KILL THESE BASTARDS!” Dutch shouted, and then all hell broke loose.

  
  


RANE wasn’t the only one taken by surprise with the gunfire that erupted between Milton’s men and Van der Linde’s boys; Percival Harker went for his wand at once, clearly safe in the knowledge that no muggle was going to notice it in the fray. Rane saw him wave it before him - a Shielding charm, probably - and then scowl, cursing, as nothing happened. She felt a fierce rush of satisfaction. He’d played himself the same as her.

Without her wand, she was down to her sword, and in order to use it without relieving Arthur and Dutch of a few limbs in the upswing she needed to get to the door, so that was where she presently headed, half-crouched against the hail of gunfire. Arthur, from his spot in cover against the window, looked at her in alarm, his eyes widening.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’?” he roared over the crash of gunfire.

“I CAN’T USE MAGIC!” Rane bellowed back, looking at him over her shoulder. “I TOLD YOU!”

“RANE ROTH, DON’T YOU OPEN THAT DOOR OR I’LL KILL YA MYSELF!”

Ignoring him, Rane flung it wide, and immediately a flurry of bullets rained in, their assailants seeing this unexpected gap in their armor and firing for it, striking the wood of the doorframe and spraying splinters. John and Charles ducked away, their guns aiming out the windows, but they needn’t have worried. Her sword was flying in the space of a second, not just deflecting now but _aiming_ what she deflected back at their attackers, and in spite of his grief and fear Dutch could not help but stare helplessly at her. She twirled the sword around her wrist with such deft expertise that it was impossible to track her motions, her hair flying around her face, the black dress’s skirts flapping about her lean waist, the clangs of the bullets riding off her blade loud and sharp in the bank. And men were falling now on the road, struck in the throats and the hearts and the foreheads, not arbitrary but as calculated as if she’d fired them from a gun of her own. Now her sword switched hands, as quick as a dragonfly, and even in her left it was adroit. Her eyes were set on the man who’d called her to come out, angry and cold, and Dutch realized with a shock that she was about to stride out there toward him. Swordplay or no, she’d not survive that, and he couldn’t let that happen.

"MISS ROTH, GET OUTTA THAT DAMN DOOR!" he bellowed.

“You ain’t so good without your wand, are you?” Rane said loudly. Harker was fumbling two-handed with a pistol he clearly knew nothing about, ducked behind a crate. “You better think twice before you cast a spell like that while one of the Eldar is armed with steel next time, you son of a -!”

He fired a bullet at her, his aim unsteady, and Rane let it fly back at him. It winged him, striking his arm and sending him shouting onto his back, the gun clattering from his hand.

“DUTCH!” Arthur was glaring over at her, his eyes wide and fearful as he shot at the lawmen. “GET HER OUTTA THERE BEFORE I -!”

“RANE!” Dutch said loudly, trying to pour all of his authority into his voice. “GET THE HELL OUT OF THAT DOOR, I SAID!”

Rane did, ducking away, bullets whining past her and striking the far wall, sending Bill and Lenny ducking. Dutch smashed the door shut, snatched the hem of her dress and yanked her close until they were nose to nose, meeting her eyes.

“You mind me next time, girl." He thrust her away roughly. “Can you use that goddamned thing in your pocket yet? Because if ya can, I got an idea.”

“I dunno. That spell that he used doesn't last long, but -”

“Well, if you can,” said Dutch, “blow the hell outta that wall over there.”

He took her by the shoulders and pointed aft. Rane broke away from him, the gunfire still whistling past, and aimed her wand at the wall Dutch had indicated.

“ _Reducto_!”

Nothing happened. Rane shook her head, then resettling her stance, shifting her shoulders and shaking her head, aimed her wand again, her eyes narrowing.

“REDUCTO!”

The wall before her shattered in a shockingly loud crash of brick and mortar, and she fell backwards against the bank counter, her eyes wide, as shocked that her spell had worked as anyone else. Harker’s spell had clearly ended.

"ARTHUR!" Dutch shouted, not allowing this display to halt him. He had crouched behind the counter. "YOU ALIVE?"

"Just about!" Arthur ducked from cover, skidding to a crouch beside Dutch, hair in disarray and guns smoking slightly.

"You get on up to the roof and cover us," said Dutch, looking sharply at Arthur. At the windows, John and Charles were still firing at their assailants.

“Dutch -”

“Get up there. I'll cover the rear and we'll get 'em outta here,” said Dutch, looking sharply at Arthur.

Rane cast an anxious look at the front of the bank. “Dutch, I can help out here -”

“You go on,” said Dutch, and shoved at Rane’s shoulder roughly. “Do as I say.”

Rane did, following along at Arthur’s heel.


	22. Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang flee to a boat from the mess in Saint Denis

_With tired eyes_   
_And bills to pay_   
_You gotta make it through_   
_Another day_   
_The streets can see_   
_Into your soul_   
_It ain't where ya been_   
_But where you're gonna go._

**\- The Arcs**

____________

There was a ladder just outside the blown wall, and Rane followed Arthur as he climbed, his breath harried in his throat. The sounds of continuing gunfire below, as well as the shouting of the gang and the lawmen caught in the fray, were loud and harried. The air was thick with the acrid stink of gunsmoke, hanging like a pall before them in the skies. It was humid and warm, bringing beads of sticky sweat to their brows, and Rane was beginning to wish she could rip this stupid dress off and cast it into the gutter. Better to fight butt-ass naked than in this fucking thing.

“You hurt?” Arthur asked as they reached the roof, looking over one shoulder at her.

Rane, a little winded, shook her head. "Are you?”

“Not yet,” said Arthur. He was striding toward the edge of the building, guns held loosely at his sides. “Ask me again in a couple minutes. Stay real low, now.”

Rane crouched, hunkering at the edge of the roof at Arthur’s side. There were more lawmen appearing on the curve of the road now, some astride horses and others on foot, all of them firing with impunity.

“Jesus Christ,” Rane breathed. “So damn many of them.”

“Yep. I smell a rat.” Arthur fired one-handed at a man on the balcony opposite them and he fell from the railing, tumbling head over heels. “We get outta here alive, it’ll be a goddamned miracle.”

“ _Protego maxima_!” Rane said loudly, aiming her wand.

“What’d you do?”

“Cast a shield over the front of the bank,” said Rane. “They’ll have a couple minutes to get out.”

Arthur looked at her for a moment longer, then placed a hand on the back of her head and drawing her face towards his kissed her hard, the smell of his sweat strong.

“Goddam, you’re somethin’."

“I’m pretty cool, I know.”

“Pretty humble, too.” Arthur broke away as a bullet whined past them and returned fire, his mouth pulled back into a grim sneer. “Goddammit, where the hell are those boys at?”

“The fuck is _that_ thing?” said Rane, her voice soft.

Arthur turned to follow her gaze. A wagon was pulling up, and on the back of it -

“Arthur, they got a Gatling!” a voice said behind them. Javier was clambering up the ladder, his face shining with sweat. “Take that son of a bitch out before he makes ribbons outta us -!”

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

A flash of green light flew from Rane’s wand, and the man behind the Gatling gun fell over dead, his hat toppling off, falling head over heels to the dirt.

For a moment Rane only stared down at him from their place on the roof, the wind quick and hard around them, her heart beating hard. She felt sick.

“God DAMN but ain’t she good?” Javier was saying behind her, thrilled.

“Rane? The hell’s -?”

“Nothing.” Rane shook her head. She’d never performed a killing curse before, and it was as if she’d crossed some sort of invisible threshold in that moment. She was an auror, and she’d killed scores of men, but . . . not like this. It felt scummy, like taking a man out with a dagger in the back.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the clamor of men climbing up the ladder behind them. They turned, and in a moment the rest of the gang had appeared, Dutch heading their procession, his face harried and his hair in disarray.

“They got John,” he said, panting, standing before Arthur and Rane with his hands on his hips, catching his breath.

“What do you mean, they got John?” Rane said sharply.

“Killed?” Arthur’s voice was just as harsh, his eyes frightened.

Dutch was shaking his head, still breathing roughly. “Arrested. I couldn’t help.”

“Well we better go or we’ll be next,” said Arthur, shaking his head.

“What d’you think, Arthur?”

Arthur sighed, his breath shearing from between his teeth. “I reckon me and Lenny try to find a way across the roofs, so if you’ll cover us -”

“Go with ‘em,” said Dutch, gesturing at Rane. “You can use that goddamned thing now, so go with ‘em and -”

“Hang on, Dutch, what about _John_?” Rane’s voice was harsh and accusatory, her eyes flashing. “We can't just -!”

“The law took him, girl, I already told ya,” said Dutch, shaking his head. “There ain’t nothin’ we can do, not now -”

“Hey, we gotta _move_!” said Arthur roughly. He was standing on the roof, still bent at the waist, his guns in his hands, looking back at them. “Otherwise we’ll all go the same way!”

“She can handle ‘em, Arthur, if they -!”

“Dutch, no.” Rane was shaking her head, her eyes forbidding. Arthur was nodding at her side.

“She’s good, sure, but there’s three dozen of them down there and more comin’, Dutch,” he said roughly. “Don’t be a fool.”

“He’s right, I can’t take that many on my own,” said Rane, her hair flying about her face in the rough wind. “Especially not with aurors around. That Harker guy, I know he wasn’t the only one.”

“Alright, fine, go on.” Dutch flung a hand. “Make it fast.”

“Let's go, Lenny.”

Rane ran after Arthur. He was striding across the roofs, his guns pulled. Lenny was ahead, looking back at them.

“Come on! I see a door -!” 

“LENNY!”

Rane wasn't quick enough, and for the second time that night she cursed herself for it. The men piling out of the door were faster, and their guns faster still. There was a thunder of gunfire, and Lenny fell beneath their bullets, heartshot, his lean form crumpling on the roof. Arthur, shouting, aimed both his guns and felled the lot of them before Rane could lift her wand, his eyes hard. Running up on Lenny’s body he knelt, his face contorted, his eyes wide.

“Dutch! They got Lenny!”

“God _damn_ them!” Dutch cried, but he wasn’t stopping, and neither were Micah and Charles. “We gotta go, Arthur, come _on_! We gotta leave him!”

“Oh, Lenny. Oh, goddammit all to hell.”

Arthur was clutching Lenny’s shoulders, his hair hanging in his face, his mouth downturned. Lenny lay on the hot shingles, blood running from his chest, his eyes staring up to the heavens, seeing past them all. Rane reached down and grasped Arthur’s shoulder tightly, yanking him up.

“ARTHUR, COME ON!” Dutch shouted from up ahead. Rane clutched his shoulder and shook it gently.

“We have to keep going. He’d want it.”

“How the hell do you know what he wanted?”

Rane grasped a handful of Arthur’s shirt and yanked his agonized face close to hers. “Would he want you getting killed dead, Arthur Morgan? Is _that_ what he’d have wanted?”

Arthur, his eyes hurt and wide, looked into her face. She released him, her gaze on his.

“Come on, now.”

Arthur cast a final look back at Lenny, his face strained, then getting up with a grunt followed Rane, guns at his sides.

“Up there!” Dutch was shouting. He, Micah and Charles were running along the roof overhead, their boots loud on the shingles. “Careful! There’s more law down there!”

There was a window up ahead, and Dutch elbowed it, sending glass shattering across the roof, motioning the rest of them in. “Come on, you lot, inside. Arthur, you first.”

“Looks like they’re heavily patrollin’ around here,” said Bill, eyes roving over the east side of the roof. Rane followed his gaze. He was right; there were dozens of them even here, armed to the teeth, heads on the swivel.

They climbed into the window, one after the other. Arthur cast Micah a grim look as he clambered inside.

“They knew we was comin’. Just like _your_ lead in Blackwater -!”

“Ain’t nothin’ like that,” Micah said roughly, pointing a grim finger at Arthur as he strode on. Rane, last to climb in, took Arthur’s proffered hand as she did, her brow knitted. They filed together into the next room - Bill, Javier, Micah, Charles, Arthur, Dutch and Rane - all of them out of breath and worn down, and Javier shut the door behind them as they collapsed onto the ground in exhaustion.

A moment of silence passed as they caught their breath. The room was dusty, grim and long abandoned, but Rane was grateful for the shelter after the madness at the bank. It had been difficult down there. And costly. She slid down the wall, letting her legs splay out in front of her, sighing.

“What now?” said Bill

“I don’t know. I don’t.” Dutch shut the door, turning to them. “This whole town is filled with cops.”

“Well, how long we gonna stay here? A few hours?” Arthur asked. He was peering out the window, neck craning to see the streets below.

“Well, we go back to camp, they’re gonna get every last one of us,” said Dutch. He was pacing the floor, almost talking to himself, looking at no one. “I know they’re gonna be watchin’ the roads.”

“Maybe we should just give them a little bit of time to clear off and cool down, then,” said Rane.

“Yeah, I don’t much see as we have a choice in the matter, Dutch,” Arthur agreed. “Maybe we can just -”

“I got it,” said Dutch suddenly. He spread his arms expansively, looking at Arthur. “A boat.”

“What d’you mean?”

“We stay in here till nightfall, then we sneak on down to the docks. Get ourselves outta here.”

“Yeah, but _where_?” Micah asked roughly.

“Anyplace will do.” Dutch shoved at Charles’s shoulder, who vacated the chair he was in, and Dutch sat down, looking around at them all. He’d adopted his old, unctuous politician voice, Rane noted with a touch of dismay. She shifted, crossing her feet and folding her arms across her chest, watching. This was another grand plan, surely. “We lie low. We come back for the rest in a few days.”

Arthur sighed, and sat next to Rane, his back sliding against the wall. When he spoke, he sounded weary.

“I’m guessin’ it’s that, or we die out there right now.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help your friends,” said Rane abruptly. Arthur looked over at her. She was still sitting cross-armed, the late afternoon sunlight glimmering off the sweat standing at the hollow of her throat, tendrils of hair hanging at her cheeks, but now her eyes were in the black lap of her dress and her brows were knitted. She looked ashamed.

Dutch was looking at her too, and for a moment real emotion flashed in his eyes, free of his bluster.

“Well,” he said at last. “Hosea was my oldest friend, and a good man. Lenny, too. But I cannot blame you for that. Wasn’t nothin’ any one of us coulda done.”

“Hosea.” Arthur shook his head, hands dangling between his knees, looking at the floor. “Don’t that just put a pin in it. And young Lenny. Barely old enough to spit, poor damn kid.”

“There’ll be a time for mournin’,” said Dutch, “but it ain’t right now, Arthur. Right now we gotta stay calm and get the hell outta here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just sayin’.”

“Who was that man callin’ you out?” Micah asked, looking at Rane from where he stood leaning against the wall. “Harker, or whatever he said his name was?”

“Magical Congress,” said Rane. “I hogtied that guy a few nights ago. He’s an auror, same as me. I assaulted him, and broke a couple of other laws. So I imagine he wants to arrest me for his troubles.”

“Laws? What laws?”

“There’s an international agreement not to let mug - er, non-magical people know that wizards exist,” said Rane, a trifle impatiently. She really didn’t want to get into all this again. “Obviously, I’m breaking the hell out of that one, for starters. You guys have seen me do all kinds of shit.”

Micah scoffed. “Seems stupid.”

Rane looked at him, her eyelashes flashing in the sunlight, cocking her head in a way that Arthur thought looked a tad dangerous.“Why you say?”

“Well, of _course_ somebody’s gonna figure it out eventually,” Micah went on, gesticulating. “And no harm in it, anyways, seems like.”

“There are mass graves full of people murdered by muggles for using magic as far back as written word, and every single one of them would disagree,” Rane told him, her eyes betraying a touch of disdain. “People tend to turn into dumb violent assholes when they don’t understand something, as you helpfully demonstrated when you tried to put a bullet in my head over a measly Patronus charm a couple days ago.”

Micah flushed a little at this, giving her a cool look. Charles laughed openly. Javier was smirking, too.

“And no, people won't just figure it out eventually, there are regulations in place for that,” Rane went on, low, picking at the hem of her skirts irritably. “If someone does, we wipe their memory. Obviously it’s working pretty well, apart from me.”

“Alright, Christ.” Micah shifted, turning from her and looking temperamentally toward the far wall. “I was just askin’.”

“Is he dangerous, you think?” Dutch asked her. “This Harker feller? The auror?”

Rane looked at him grimly, the sunlight catching in her eyes and turning them strangely fiendish. "All aurors are dangerous. That's why we're aurors and not janitors."

“And what’ll he do to ya if he catches ya?” Bill asked, looking curious in spite of himself.

Rane leaned back, letting her head rest on the wall, looking thoughtful. “If I had to take a stab, I’d say that this many violations would get me dead, honestly. He’s not gonna catch me, though,” she added, smirking at Bill. “He’s tried twice already and I’m still kicking. I’m not worried about it.”

“What d’you mean, _dead_?” Arthur said sharply at her elbow.

“I mean capital punishment,” Rane replied drolly, meeting his eyes. “Sent to the last reward. A short drop and a sudden stop. They kill you for some crimes, same as muggles do.”

“They can’t -!”

“Sure they can. You told me people swing from the fucking gallows around here just for stealing a damn horse. What do you think they’d do to someone who broke an international century-old treaty? Give them a week's community service and a stern talking-to?”

Arthur’s eyes flicked between hers, his mouth downturned, genuinely dismayed. Seeing his face, Rane leaned over, nudging him slightly, her eyes on his, feeling a touch ashamed for her levity.

“Relax. He's not gonna catch me, so the point is moot.”

“Well, we’ll certainly have to see to it that he doesn’t,” Dutch agreed, his voice grim and a little uneasy. He leaned back, crossing his arms. “We most certainly will.”

  
  


NIGHTFALL found most of them dozing at their repose, exhausted by the day’s events and worn on adrenaline. Bill was snoring open-mouthed on the floor, and Dutch and Javier had dropped their hats over their eyes, arms folded over their chests and legs stretched out in front of them, boots crossed. Rane had leaned against Arthur, her head on his shoulder, and he’d strung his arm around her shoulders and rested his temple against the crown of her head, his hat at his side.

“Alright, you lot,” said Charles loudly, getting up and stretching richly. Rane and Arthur jolted, looking at one another, then in a moment of almost comedic timing both looked down. Arthur had twined his fingers through hers and their clasped hands were resting in his lap, lax as they slept. They moved away from one another quickly, Arthur clearing his throat gruffly. “Sun’s down, time to move.”

“You two need a minute?” Micah said, getting to his feet and looking wryly at Arthur.

“Shut up, Micah, before I have her shoot some more sparkles at ya. Did you bring a spare pair of knickers, ya skittish son of a bitch?”

Rane snorted. Even seconds after waking up, he was a snappy bastard.

“You boys shut up,” said Dutch, his voice rough from sleep. He was standing before the window, peering out and straightening his hat. The stars hung overhead, but the streetlights, orange and cool, cast his face into sharp resolution. “I don’t see nothin’. Maybe they cut out.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Charles grimly.

“Yeah, well. Y’all follow me.”

They made their way out of the building, all with weapons in hand, and crept out the front door. The streets outside were damp and deserted, the crickets loud and the humid warmth baking off the stone flagging beneath them. Rane could see the glittering of the water ahead beneath the moonlight. It wasn’t far. Across the train tracks and to wherever the hell Dutch had in mind.

“You see one of them boys after you, you say,” said Arthur. He was hurrying along at her elbow, half-crouched, gun in hand, and Rane felt a rush of tenderness rise in her chest at his nearness. He was staying close to her because he wanted to keep her safe. If she’d doubted how hard she was crushing on this guy up until now, she didn’t need to worry about it anymore. “Don’t try to do nothin’ stupid like you did back there at that bank.”

“If it’s a good auror, nobody will see them coming,” she replied, still smiling a little in the darkness. “I’m halfway to being crazy about you, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur glanced sidelong at her, his face half-hidden by the night’s shadows, and the broad, genuine smile that appeared on his face at these words was so intoxicating that it was all Rane could do not to drop her wand and fling her arms around him right then and there.

“Where the hell did _that_ come from?”

“If I figure it out I’ll let you know,” said Rane, and then abandoning pretense she yanked him to her by the lapels of his suit and kissed him, helpless not to. One of his hands strayed to her cheek, both of them straightening beneath the Saint Denis streetlamps, the moisture rising around them into the hot sky, their breath shearing between their lips, heedless.

“ _Arthur_! Is this really the best time for that kind of shit?”

Rane and Arthur broke apart, both seeming to remember themselves. Dutch was glaring back at them, gun pointed toward the skies, as were the rest of them.

“COME ON!” Dutch hissed, beckoning angrily. “You two can fawn over each other later, get the HELL up here!”

They did, Arthur looking a little pink-faced, pacing the rest of them. Javier pointed to their left with his pistol as they neared the tracks.

“Law,” he muttered. “Lookin’ for us, like as not.”

“Shit,” said Dutch, low. He pointed ahead, grasping Arthur by the sleeve of his shirt. “You see that?”

“You mean to get us onto that boat.”

“I do indeed.” He turned to Rane, his face half-hidden in shadow. “You think you can keep your hands off of Arthur long enough to distract ‘em?”

”If they’re just lawmen, sure,” said Rane, low. “If they’re MACUSA and I fire at them, we’re all liable to get our asses handed to us.”

“ _Are_ they? MACUSA?”

Rane shook her head. “I don’t know. Only way to tell is to try to curse them. If they’re MACUSA they’ll be on us like white on rice, Dutch, and I’m good, but I’m not good enough to fight off ten or eleven aurors. They’d lay me out. Probably wipe all your memories and turn you into a bunch of dribbling idiots, too.”

Charles moved forward, crouched behind a crate, eyes sharp in the gloom. “I’ll go.”

Rane looked at him sharply. “Charles, no.”

“Could be they’re just a bunch of old fools with guns.”

“Yeah, but if they’re not -”

“If they’re not, they’ll run me off so I don’t see what they are,” said Charles, meeting her eyes. “Same as you said. Either way it’ll clear the path. When they chase after me, you lot make a break for it.”

“Charles, I don’t like the sound of that,” said Arthur, looking at him anxiously.

“You don't have to like it, just do it,” said Charles, and without another word he broke cover and strode toward the lawmen, arms swinging and long hair flying in the seabreeze. Rane watched him go with a faint expression of respect.

“Absolute legend,” she murmured. Her wand was aimed at the lawmen, watching silently. “Let’s hope they’re just yokels for his sake.”

“If they ain’t, you cover him, _mi alma_ ,” said Javier sharply.

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”

They weren’t aurors, as it turned out, and Charles's plan worked a treat. When they spotted him, he sprinted away, moving with surprising quickness for a man his size, and they followed after him at once, shouting. Once they’d passed beyond sight, Dutch beckoned, moving forward quickly.

“Alright, come on.”

  
  


THE boat was crammed with crates - some kind of cargo ship, Rane assumed, though her knowledge of nautical minutiae was admittedly limited - and found cover between some of them. The night was dark and humid overhead, riddled with stars even so early, and the six of them collapsed onto the damp deck, breathing quickly and staring around them. The ship rocked with the tide even anchored, gentle but relentless, the sounds of the water lapping against its sides loud and continuous and the smell of salt high and strong in the air. Rane decided at once that she didn’t care for seafaring.

“This boat ain’t goin’ to Tahiti by any chance?” said Arthur drolly, sliding down onto the plank wood beneath them.

“I don’t know,” said Dutch, shaking his head. “Maybe so.”

“Yeah, well maybe it’ll take us to the bottom of the goddamned ocean,” said Micah crossly. He looked as nauseated as Rane felt.

“Well, then the bottom of the ocean is where we’ll go,” said Dutch shortly. “I’m doin’ the best I can here.”

Micah, looking irritable, moved off toward the hull, laying on his side. Javier and Bill were both doing the same, clearly done in. Arthur remained where he was, sitting at Rane’s side, looking over at Dutch, one leg propped up and the other stretched out before him. He was shaking his head.

“John. Hosea. Lenny.” Arthur looked at Dutch, his face hard in the low light. “That wasn’t good, Dutch.”

“Yeah, I know it.” Dutch was staring into the night sky, his eyes glimmering. “I know it.”

“What are we gonna do now?”

Dutch sighed. Behind them, Bill had already begun to snore lightly, one hand thrown over his eyes. The sound of the anchor being drawn portside was loud, its creak damp and harsh, as was the walkway being flung to the harborside.

"Sounds like we're shoving off," Rane remarked. "No going back now."

“Guess I’m gonna introduce myself to the captain,” said Dutch at last. “Give him some of this gold to secure his silence. Find out where we’re heading.”

“You should let me,” said Rane, starting for her feet, but Dutch placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing her back down.

“No.”

“I’ll just flirt with him a little bit -”

“ _No_ , I said. I gotta do this. I gotta do _somethin’_ for my boys tonight that don’t go tits up.”

Rane settled back at Arthur’s side, looking at Dutch as he got to his feet. His face was half-hidden in shadow, but what she could see was naked enough; he felt responsible for all three of their losses that night, in spite of all his pomposity and bombast, and under cover of darkness his true nature was quite clear. When he said he cared for these men like his own sons, he meant it. But the road to hell was paved with good intentions, as Rane had always known, and Hosea and Lenny had found that out. All the charisma and bravado in the world couldn’t save either of them from a bullet through the heart. And he, Dutch, would not stop on their account. Not for the first time, Rane found herself pondering him. She couldn’t decide how she felt about him, not at the heart of the thing, yet here she was following him into battle like a trained hound, as sloppy-eyed and willing to serve as the rest of them. He was nothing if he wasn’t skilled at bewitching them.

“How do I look?” said Dutch, spreading his arms.

“Like a shifty no-good killer on the run from the law,” said Arthur, taking off his hat and tossing it to the side.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Dutch smoothed his vest and straightened his hat, striding out from between the crates, and from the jaunty set of his body he must have spotted a sailor straightaway. Rane and Arthur peered out around the crates after him. “‘Scuse me, sir! May I have a word?”

“He’s got swagger up to his eyeballs, that man,” Rane remarked, settling back against the crates. Dutch’s hearty conversation was fading as he and the sailor strode off together. “No damn wonder everyone thinks the sun shines out of his ass.”

“Dutch? Oh yeah, he's got personality, alright.” Arthur said, massaging his chin. “He always tries to do right by us.”

“Did he do right by Lenny and Hosea?” Rane asked before she could stop herself.

Arthur shook his head, sighing. “You won’t get no argument from me, Miss Roth. That shouldn’t have been. None of it. Not for a sack of _this_ shit, leastways -”

He picked up the satchel of their winnings from the bank and let it drop to the deck, his face screwed up with disgust.

“Hosea and Lenny was worth ten of these,” he muttered. “Twenty, even. Good damn men, both of ‘em.” He paused, then added, “I'll tell ya no lies, for a second or two there I coulda punched the teeth clean outta his head when I saw them gun that boy down, Rane. Truly I coulda.”

“Talk like that don’t much abide by Dutch,” Micah said from further on down, speaking from beneath the hat he’d rested over his face.

“Yeah, well I don’t much abide droppin’ eaves,” Arthur muttered.

Rane got to her feet, stretching richly. They were really moving now; she could feel the crash of the water beneath the ship, and the flap of the sails was loud overhead. Her initial trepidation had departed her, replaced now with curiosity.

“Come with me,” she said, beckoning. “I wanna see. Off the side.”

“You wanna see what, a bunch of damn water?” Arthur said, sounding chiding, but he was standing as well.

“Humor me.”

Rane strode to the edge of the ship, which was adorned with a cast-iron railing. She grasped it in both fists, swaying with the movement of the boat, her eyes on the seas beyond, and for a moment she could scarcely breathe for the beauty of it. The skies rode overhead, pink at the horizon and heady with stars at the zenith, with a pregnant moon hanging over the sea. The reflections on the waves were glittering, constantly in motion, frantic and yet tranquil. The spray of the ocean against the hull was rough and Rane could feel it pattering against her skin, cool and light as rainfall. The deck beneath her boots was shining and damp from it.

“You ain’t never been on a boat before, have ya?” Arthur asked shrewdly, coming to her side and leaning over the railings.

“I’ve never, no,” Rane managed, faint. “Have you?”

“Couple few times, yeah. Me, I like both feet on the dirt.” He stomped at the planks beneath them, producing a hollow sound. “I don’t care much for havin’ nothin’ but a hunk of wood standin’ between me and ten thousand leagues, I guess.”

“It’s . . . eerie, sort of,” said Rane, her eyes on the horizon. “It’s like my eyes don’t know how to look at something so huge.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to get used to it if Dutch curries that captain’s favor. I don’t know where we’re going, but that there?”

He took Rane’s shoulder and aimed her, pointing to their slight left.

“That’s southeast, which means we’re headed due south, and there ain’t nothin’ that way for days and days.”

“Dutch has a plan, I’m sure.”

Arthur laughed grimly. “Yeah, so he likes to say.”

“You don’t think he does?”

Arthur sighed, shifting, and glanced over his shoulder. Dutch was still aft with the captain, though; he could hear, faintly, the sounds of his hearty voice over the crashing waves. “I dunno what I believe, just now,” he said, turning back to the ocean. “I guess all we can do is have faith that Dutch knows what he’s doin’.”

Rane was still gazing over the vast seas before them. The air was redolent with salt. Arthur glanced over at her a little surreptitiously from where he was leaning over the railings, shoulders bunched. Her hands clutched the railings, the skirts of Susan’s black dress flapping about her legs, and as usual looking on her face made Arthur a little more aware of the heart thumping in his chest. Her hair had begun to come free of the knot she’d made and it was thrown back from her brow in the riotous winds, and her eyes were lit up like a kid at Christmas, peering off over the waters. The moonlight riding on the ridge of her brow and the droplets of sea mist glistening on her chest made her not just beautiful but almost ethereal, not a woman at all but some gossamer deity from a world far more celestial than this.

"It's beautiful," she muttered, eyes on the ocean.

“Yeah, it is. Rane -”

“Alright!” a hearty voice said behind them, making both Rane and Arthur jump. Dutch was striding down the stairs, taking them two at a time and looking positively sprightly.

“What’d he say?” asked Arthur. “I’m guessin’ it’s good news judgin’ by that look on your face.”

“Ah well.” Dutch shrugged, approaching them. “It’ll take a bit more gold, but they’re willin’ to let us sail with them.”

“Where are they headed?” Rane asked, turning and leaning against the railing.

“South. Down from New England. Mostly Frenchmen in the crew, captain says. They’re takin’ some Pennsylvania coal down to the islands." Dutch was dusting his vest off and looking quite pleased with himself. “Apparently we’re gonna be able to slip ashore in northern Cuba in a couple days.”

"Ooh!" Rane exclaimed. "Cigars and _ropa vieja! Andale, andale_!"

“Cuba, huh." Arthur was watching Dutch, speculative. He coughed hoarsely. “What the hell are we gonna do in Cuba, Dutch?”

“Lay low for a while. Then head back, gather the rest of our family. We got money now.” Dutch was speaking quickly. “Money and loyalty. And with that we can do whatever we please.”

“What if they try to follow?” Rane asked, shifting her weight.

Dutch laughed, a merry sound without a hint of fret. Rane was disheartened by the spirit in it. Listening to the jolly tone he was using, he might not have lost two of his boys six hours ago, one of them his oldest friend.

“They won’t. I figure we hold ourselves to ourselves, and this is done and dusted.” He gestured to the two of them. “We got a couple bunks down below these boys are willin’ to part with. Looks like the rest of these fools are done in, but you two can take one if you want.”

Rane peered around him. It was true; Bill, Javier and Micah had fallen fast asleep where they’d landed, obviously exhausted, between the crates.

“I’m gonna go take some time and get to know this captain,” Dutch went on. “He seems a good feller. Might play a few hands, drink an ale or two. See if I can negotiate the salary he’s askin’, maybe.”

“Well don’t have too much fun,” said Arthur. “We gotta stay on our toes, Dutch -”

“Yeah, I know it, I know it.” He was striding away even as he waved this off. “Get some shut-eye, you two.”

Rane and Arthur watched him as he trotted back up deck, a definite skip in his step.

“Listenin’ to him, Hosea might not be layin’ on a cooling board someplace in Saint Denis,” Arthur muttered, very low.

“Yeah, well.” Rane followed his gaze, troubled, then batted Arthur’s arm lightly. “Come on, let’s go try to get some sleep.”

  
  


THE bunks belowdeck were no feather mattresses but they weren’t bad. One of the sailors pointed Rane toward a room with just one cot, speaking French in a rapidfire salaam. As a final absurdity he had bowed her inside, waving a hand elaborately, and backed away with a flourish, vanishing from the cabin.

“The hell was he talking about?” Arthur murmured, staring after him in bewilderment.

“No idea,” said Rane. “Think he was trying to be sort of gentlemanly, giving me the only private cabin? Maybe? I dunno.”

She went in and sat on the bed, bouncing up and down gently. Arthur leaned in the doorway, crossing his feet and watching her over his chin.

“Think that’ll suit ya, your grace?”

"Fair to midland, I guess, sure."

A silence fell before them, Rane looking up at him, Arthur rocking on his heels, looking strangely uncomfortable.

“Alright, well, I’ll let ya get some shut-eye,” he said at last, starting out.

“Stay.”

He turned back, looking at her, one hand on the door jamb.

“In here?”

“Will you?” Rane stared up at him frankly. “Please?”

Arthur moved into the room, shutting the door behind him with a snick. “Yeah, if you’re sure you -”

“I am.”

Arthur pulled his boots off, tossing them into the corner, then, a little hesitantly, began to remove the top half of his suit. Rane lay back on the cot, relishing the softness beneath her, and sighing put her hands behind her head.

“It’s not bad,” she remarked, gnawing on one thumbnail and watching Arthur out of the corner of her eye. He pulled his shirt over his head and cast it away, rolling his shoulders, and she had a moment to admire the long muscles in his back flexing as he did. “Squishier than I thought.”

Arthur fell roughly into bed at her side and slung an arm around her, pulling her close to him, the spring coils creaking beneath them as he did. Rane pressed herself closer to him, reaching over and running her hand over his torso experimentally. He’d never been bare-chested in front of her before. After a moment she leaned closer, feeling his hand roving up and down her back, and lay her head against his chest, wrapping her arms around him. The sound of his heartbeat sprang to life in her ear, the motion of his slow breath beneath her vital and strong.

"You still haven't said it."

"Said what?" Rane sat up, looking at him, her hair falling free of the knot at the top of her head.

"You know."

Rane put on a heavy Scottish accent. "'You look smashing, Miss Moneypenny.'"

Arthur didn't laugh. Rane's bemused smile faded a little.

"Sorry. Enlighten me."

Arthur sat up as well, his eyes on hers, solemn and a trifle cold. “How many men?”

Rane recoiled, looking at him with real surprise. “ _What_?”

"What I asked."

“Are you asking me how many people I've had _sex_ with? Jesus _Christ_ , dude, that's a little bold, don't you th -?”

“No, I’m not askin’ how many fools you took to bed with you, Rane, you damned idiot.” He shook his head. “I’m askin’ how many of ‘em said what I said to you today and meant it.”

Rane looked into his eyes from beneath her brows, her smile quite gone now. “This is a pretty fucked up line of questioning.”

"Why? Because you don't know or because you don't wanna tell me?"

Arthur's voice was stern, uncompromising. The grinning, slightly awkward man that had vacillated in Rane's doorway a few minutes prior was nowhere in evidence. She cleared her throat, a touch uncomfortable.

"I dunno. Lots." She shrugged. "I haven't kept a tally."

"And how many times have you said it back?"

Rane scoffed. "Arthur -"

"No, come on." Arthur's voice was still firm and chilly. "Say."

Rane watched his eyes, tense now and perhaps a little hostile: “Once.”

“You gonna make it twice?”

Rane looked at him a long moment, silent, breathing a little more quickly. She could see the fear she felt reflected in Arthur's eyes and realized that it had taken more courage than he was letting on for him to say what he'd just said. Had he been waiting for her to arrive there on her own since they'd ridden to Shady Belle? Had he been suffering? She thought maybe he had, but it didn't make her feel any less frightened.

“Do you love me?” asked Arthur, very quiet.

Rane looked at him a long moment, her breath harsh in her throat, then leaned forward and kissed him, pressing herself against him. His hands were around her at once, strong and firm, and she could feel his heart racing beneath his ribs, as afraid as she was.

“ _Do_ you?” he asked against her mouth.

“Yes.” Rane leaned back, grasping his neck in her hands, and her eyes were bright in her face as she looked at him. “Yes, Arthur.”

“Say it." His voice was rough now with emotion. "Rane, please say it -”

“I love you. I _love_ you, Arthur Morgan.” Eschewing her pretense, she grasped his face in her hands, looking into his eyes. “I love you so fucking much I don’t know what to -”

It was enough. Arthur moved over her, pressing her against the mattress beneath him, his face against hers, and Rane felt the buck of his hips against her, same as the night before the fire.

“I love you, too,” he told her, speaking with his lips brushing hers. “More than I love the life in my chest, I do, Rane.”

He was yanking the skirts of her dress up now, pulling them away from her thighs, his hand running up the long lay of her leg with rough desire, and Rane was tearing at his belt, her mouth on his.

“I love you.” She said it again, liking the release of it. “I love you. I _love_ you -”

Arthur pulled back her dresses and in one smooth motion pulled his fly free and placed himself inside her, thrusting hard. She gasped against his mouth, her eyes on his.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You sure you love me?” He thrust hard presently, and she gasped roughly against him as he entered her for the second time, her fingers clawing against his bare shoulder, loving the fullness of him filling her up. “You sure you don’t just like this part?”

“Yes.” Rane took his face in her hands and looked at him. Arthur was startled by it. She’d done it before, but he’d never been with a woman who’d wanted to look into his eyes while he was inside her. “Yes, I like this, and yes, I’m sure. I love you. I love you so fucking much I don’t -”

Arthur stopped her words with his mouth, pressing into her, feeling her in her fullness. In a moment, as he reached his climax, his face in her shoulder, he began to cry. He didn’t know why, and nor did Rane, who clasped his face in her hands, looking at him in alarm. He wasn’t a crying man, never had been; he could count on one hand how many times he’d done it, even as a boy, but here he was in this woman’s arms, tears spilling from his eyes like he was ten years old.

“What?” Rane sat up, her hands on his cheeks, looking at him. “ _What_ , Arthur?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur tried to divert his gaze from hers, ashamed to the core of him, but she would not let him.

“No, you say.”

“I’m so goddamned scared of you,” he said, looking into her eyes, tears spilling from his eyes. “So scared, Rane. So scared of how I feel for ya.”

Rane looked at him for a long moment, her eyes moving between his, utterly shocked by the emotion falling from this man who’d given every impression that he was as solid as a brick wall, then leaning forward pressed her mouth on his, as hard as she could, trying to pour all the things she felt for him into it, tasting the salt of his tears.

“I won’t let anyone lay a fucking finger on you as long as I live, Arthur Morgan. I’ll run them through." She took his face in her hands again. “I'm yours.”

“Are you?”

“Until I’m dead.” She pushed him back down onto the bed, her mouth on his and his hands on her back. "Lay down with me."


	23. Limdur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Rane wash up on a strange beach, shipwrecked, and meet someone they did not expect.

When I grew up fast, I guess I grew up mean  
There's a thousand things inside my head I wish I ain't seen  
And now I just wander through a real bad dream  
Feelin' like I'm coming apart at the seams  
Thank you Jack Daniel's Old Number Seven  
Tennessee whiskey got me drinking in heaven  
Angels start to look good to me  
They're gonna have to deport me to the fiery deep.

**\- The Devil Makes Three**

________________________

“Everybody wake up! WAKE UP!”

Rane and Arthur, wound together forehead to forehead in the bunk afforded them, both sprang awake, Rane going instinctively for the sword that wasn’t at her waist but lying on the side table. Dutch stood in the doorway, clutching the doorjamb. The ship was listing precariously, and the sound overhead was so loud that Rane could hardly believe she and Arthur had managed to sleep at all. Thunder was crashing, hellishly strident, and the rain hitting the hull was as hard as gunfire. It was storming like a motherfucker, and Rane felt a jolt of cold in her stomach.

“What the hell's goin' on, Dutch?” Arthur was stumbling to his feet, his eyes large.

“I don’t know but you two better come with me,” said Dutch coarsely. “Think this ship might be goin’ down to meet Davy Jones.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Rane moaned, jumping up and snatching her sword. “Please tell me he didn’t just say that.”

“He said it.” Arthur was yanking his shirt over his head, staggering against the motion beneath them. "Where's the rest of 'em, Dutch?"

“They're updeck already, gettin' a lifeboat ready. You two hurry up, I'll meet ya up there.” With an effort, Dutch left their cabin, grasping at the doorjambs against the tilting of the boat. Rane and Arthur were having enough of a hard time standing up straight on their own; the deck below was moving heartily to and fro, the sound of the waves loud beneath them. Arthur, still pulling on his shirt, was sent arms flailing into the far wall.

“God _dammit_ -!” Arthur stabilized himself laboriously, staggering.

Rane was yanking on her boots with one hand clutching the wall. She laughed a little wildly. “This is like that part in Titanic where Leo is stuck at the bottom.”

“What in the hell are you talkin’ about now?”

“Never mind. Just come on.”

As if to punctuate this, a roll of thunder, ear-splittingly loud, echoed over them, shaking the very wood of the ship beneath them. The storm was close enough to kiss, and it didn’t sound friendly. Together they followed the narrow corridor, Arthur still pulling his shirt on. At the stairway, there was a massive crash, the boat shaking around them, and a crate from up top fell through the ceiling, the sound of its cracking loud even in the storm. Rane and Arthur stumbled backwards.

"Shit!" Rane hissed.

“Can ya blast through?”

“Yeah, but I could also put a hole in this bitch and send us all down, too,” Rane replied, slightly winded. She looked up. “I got a better idea. Grab my arm.”

“Oh hell. You’re about to shoot us through the goddamned roof, ain’t ya -?”

“ASCENDIO!”

There was a flash of yellow and then they were on the top deck, shards of plank raining down around them. Arthur stumbled away from Rane, shaking his head and coughing. It was raining like hell, and sailors were shouting from sternside. The skies, purple and hellishly abysmal, were churning and rumbling. The lightning in the clouds overhead was bright white and hot, forking across the clouds wildly as the thunder rolled, ear-splitting. This wasn’t some spring rainstorm, this was a big mean bastard. The seas below them ripped about madly.

“We gotta get off this goddamned thing.” Arthur grasped Rane’s arm, looking at her. Her hair was already plastered to her cheeks, her eyes bright. “We gotta find Dutch, where the hell -?”

“There.” Rane pointed to the seas, where a lifeboat was floating, visible only by the sparkling glimmer of the lantern on board. Arthur squinted, still stumbling against the motion of the ship. He could see a face beneath that light, and it could be Dutch, sure, but -

“I can’t tell.”

“It’s him.” Rane looked over at him, blinking beneath the rain. “It’s him, Arthur, and they’re all with him. Javier, Micah, Bill - I can see them as plain as I can see you. Trust me.”

Arthur’s face fell at this, and even in the madness of the moment Rane felt her heart go out to him a little. Dutch had left them both for dead and hopped into a raft and skipped out. And Arthur had been riding with him since he was a boy. Not for the first time, Rane felt a flash of dismay towards this brave leader they’d adopted. Not quite brave enough to ensure they were able to escape the bottom level, clearly.

“We gotta jump.” Rane looked at him frankly. Thunder rolled overhead, and a flash of lightning ignited the skies as bright as daylight for a moment, casting them into sharp resolution. “We gotta.”

“You swim?”

“‘Course I do. What do I look like, a fucking moron?”

“Then you’re doin’ better than that fool back at Clemen’s Point who loves ya.” Arthur got laboriously onto the railing. The ship was listing hard now to the east, and turning Rane could tell that most of its stern was already underwater. “Don’t you goddamned drown on me or I’ll kill ya.”

“You got it.”

Arthur looked at her for another moment. Her eyes were on the sea, the rain driving against her, her damp hair flying about her face, then she dove into the tumultuous waters. He took a deep breath and followed.

For a few moments the chaos and tumult of the storm faded as Arthur was swept beneath the waves. Beneath the surface, it was quiet and tranquil, the flashes of the storm overhead muted to just light and silence. After a time, all fell dark, and Arthur knew no more.

  
  


THE next thing Rane knew, she was on a beach.

She sat up, looking around her, and the motion brought a glut of seawater from her stomach. She turned, spewing it onto the damp sand, coughing hoarsely. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and breathing harshly, she blinked up at the sky. It was blue, bright and horribly hot, and she could feel sunburn on her chest harsh enough to hurt even as she breathed. For a few moments she simply sat there, the cry of gulls loud overhead, and stared at the turf. It was rushing up toward her with the usual cadence, not wild now but gentle and regular, bringing strings of seagrass and foam. The waves reached her boots, only just, then washed away. She’d been deposited here perhaps hours ago. Long enough for the tide to go back down, anyways. How she wasn’t leagues beneath the ocean or in the belly of a shark was beyond her.

Her hand went first to her midsection, looking down her chest - sword still there, check - and then to her left boot, feeling around. Wand still there, check again. The relief of this was almost enough to send her onto her back again. The black dress was tattered now around her thighs, the shoulder on her left side hanging by threads, but her boots and her belt had both made it out okay, and that was enough to be going along with for the nonce.

"Arthur," she muttered, her voice hoarse with disuse. She coughed roughly, then with an effort got to her feet. A wave of lightheadedness washed over her at once, making her ears ring, and she waited a moment for it to pass away, willing the dark wings at the edge of her vision to fade, her heart throbbing heavily in her chest at this sudden assault of gravity. The smell of salt was powerful, almost nauseating, and her hair hung around her face in strings. Overhead, the gulls continued to cry relentlessly.

“I fucking hate seagulls,” she murmured, and lifted her voice to a shout. “ARTHUR!”

There was no answer. Rane started forward and stumbled over her boots almost at once, falling into the sand again. For a moment she just lay there, belly-down, looking across the beach, her harsh breath spraying gusts of sand away from her lips. She was weak. Probably several days living on scant bison meat and alcohol and -

“No,” she muttered, the sand shearing from her mouth with her words as her eyes flicked over the turf. “It’s because you were in a fucking shipwreck like Robinson Crusoe, you dumbass. Get up and find Arthur.”

She did, laboriously, sand clinging to her cheeks. Christ, she was thirsty.

“ARTHUR MORGAN!”

Rane continued to stagger up the beach, eyes roving over the sand. She didn’t think she’d find him. That was the truth. If she even found his body, it would be a blue-eyed miracle. She could feel the gentle caress of panic and grief fingering the back of her neck - here we go again, losing a man she loved - and staved it off with an effort. Best to shelve that type of shit right now, until she could figure out where she -

Then, suddenly, she spotted him up ahead some twenty feet off, as if this thought had conjured him. He was lying face up in the sand, arms splayed, quite motionless, still clad in most of the suit he'd worn the night prior.

“Oh, God,” Rane muttered. “Oh Christ. Please don’t be dead, you dumb son of a bitch.”

She started for his body, walking slowly and reluctantly through the sand. Almost trudging. She could feel her heart pounding terrified in her chest, and her brows were knitted above her eyes. He wasn’t moving, not even a little, and his boots must have been lost in the fracas; he was barefoot, his elegant gray suit now as tattered as her dress. She drew near and dropped to her knees heavily before him in the sand.

“Arthur.” She shook his shoulders gently, causing his head to flop bonelessly on his neck. “ _Arthur!_ ”

He didn’t move. Rane's eyes slid away from his face to his torso, most of it laid bare beneath the ragged remains of his suit, the springy curls there wavering a little in the seabreeze. She bent, dreading the coolness of his skin, and placed her ear against his chest.

Her eyes fell shut at once and she sagged against him, laughing a little wildly. Arthur’s heart was beating, slow and strong. Not dead then, just knocked out stupid. She leaned up, licked the back of her hand and held it before his nose; breathing, too, albeit scarcely. She took his limp face in her hands and planted a loud kiss on his sun-scorched forehead.

Pulling her wand from her boot, she aimed it at his chest. “ _Rennervate_.”

Arthur's eyes sprang open and he sucked in a huge, rattling breath, his eyes wide and surprised.

"What the -?" He broke off into coughing, clutching his chest, trying to sit up. Rane pressed him back down gently.

“Hang on, just - relax a second.”

“You real?” he said hoarsely, catching his breath, and touched her cheek gently with the tips of his fingers, his brow furrowed. Rane felt a rush of emotion for him so powerful she could have burst into tears right then and there. Instead she scoffed, shaking her head and pushing his hand away.

“No, I’m a fucking hologram, you big dumb asshole.” Rane leaned down and pressed her mouth against his forehead again, tasting the salt of the sea on his skin. “You scared the living breathing Christ out of me, laying there like that, you know it? I thought you were done, Arthur.”

“You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you like me or somethin’.” Arthur reached up and pulled her face down, pressing his mouth against hers hard, his breath harsh against her lips. “God, ain’t I glad to see your face.”

“Well, that makes two of us, we should both be at the bottom of the ocean right now.” Rane could not seem to pull her eyes away from him. “I mean it, you scared the shit right out of me.”

“I’m fine.” Arthur was sitting up cautiously, wincing a little.

“Are you?”

“Just about.” Arthur’s eyes were flicking between hers, soft and full of affection. Like Rane, he seemed unable to tear his eyes from her. "You ain't hurt?"

Rane shook her head, then abandoning pretense leaned forward and kissed him again, relishing the close smell of his sweat. "Just glad you're not dead."

Arthur cringed a little as she touched his chest, sucking his teeth. "Careful, careful - sunburn -"

"Shit, sorry -" Rane withdrew ruefully. "I'm just so fucking happy you're okay -"

"I love you," said Arthur frankly, smirking at her.

"I love you too."

For a moment they just sat on the sand and looked at one another, both of them grinning like idiots. Rane cleared her throat at length, biting the insides of her mouth and looking around them.

“So it looks like we pulled a Tom Hanks and ended up stranded on a goddamned island, Arthur.”

“I ain’t even gonna ask who that is.” Arthur was staring around, too. “Dutch? The rest of ‘em?”

“No idea. I just woke up on the beach, same as you. Hopefully if they made it, they’re here someplace." Rane scoffed lightly. "At least they got a boat."

"Yep." Arthur looked a little surly. "And I'll be bringin' it up if we find each other again, you can count on that."

"You said there wasn’t much south of Saint Denis, right?”

Arthur shook his head, his eyes moving over the turf, frowning. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

"Any idea where we are?”

“Well.” Arthur gestured to the treeline west of them, wavering in the light breeze beneath the sunlight. “That there, those are foxtails and coconut palms. And those don’t grow north of Cuba. So either we’re further south still or we’re someplace I ain’t never heard of.”

Rane followed his eyes, shaking her head. “The fuck do we do now.”

“Well, we can start by findin' Dutch. Or what’s left of him.” Arthur turned to her, squinting against the sunlight. “You armed still? No way to tell what kinda folk live hereabouts.”

“Yep. You?”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. He pulled one of the revolvers from his belt and dropped it onto the sand with a disgusted flourish.

“I got guns, sure, but they’re waterlogged. I could try to take ‘em apart and clean ‘em but if they fire another round true I’ll be surprised.”

“Well, then I guess I’m your provisional bodyguard, _mon coeur_ ,” said Rane, getting to her feet. She was still weak, and she staggered a little, her boots stuttering in the sand and her hands wagging at her sides. Arthur was getting laboriously up too, his breath harsh in his throat. “Do try not to piss off any locals.”

“I don’t know that there _are_ any locals,” said Arthur, dusting the sand off the back of his jeans. “Besides seagulls, that is.”

“You mean rats with wings,” Rane muttered, eyeing them distastefully. “I’ve got half a mind to shoot every last one outta the sky, nasty little -”

“ _Mae govannen_.”

Arthur and Rane whirled around. A tall man stood on the beach before them, his long blond hair floating in the breeze, watching them with one hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his belt. He wore a long green cloak, wavering in the seawind about his shins and stained with sand at its hem. He was flanked by four more, all dressed in forest-green tunics, all armed with steel, all watching them. Rane was shocked, for the second time since the O’Driscolls had taken her and Arthur, that she had not heard them approach. But another look at the stranger’s hilt explained it; there was tengwar, Elvish script, running up and down its leather wrap. Elves could slip beneath the senses easier than men.

“Who the hell are _you_?” Arthur asked roughly, and Rane saw his hand stray to the butt of his guns, useless or not.

“ _Mae govannen_ ,” said Rane, and inclined her head slightly. Arthur looked over at her and saw her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her body very still and her eyes sharp and focused on this stranger. “ _Ma istil quet’Lambe?_ ”

The man loosed a hearty laugh that seemed genuine enough. “Yes, I speak English, pretty little one. Of course I do. I have seen enough eons pass to learn the tongues of Men.” He eyed her curiously, tilting his head. “You are Elf-kind?”

“I am.” Rane stood in the sand, her long hair flying about her face, still watching him, her eyes acute beneath her brows.

“ _Ñoldor_ , I assume.” He gestured at her. “We do not meet many black of hair in these lands.”

“My father is Vanyar-blooded," said Rane, touching her dark hair a trifle self-consciously. “ _Le suilon_.”

The stranger laughed again at this, his thumbs linked in his belt, glancing back at his companions as if sharing a little joke. They were chuckling, too. Arthur exchanged a somewhat disconcerted look with Rane.

“To stand on such _ceremony_!” the man cried, looking delighted. "There is no need for decorum, my friend, we do not care to parade our fine breeding here. Though I must admit," he added, a little derisively, "I have not encountered a daughter of Vanyar washing up on our shores like a drowned stowaway until this day."

Rane hesitated. "Our ship went down, heading for Cuba."

"Bad luck." The man eyed her, clasping his hands behind his back. "Where do you hail from, Eldarin girl? Tell it back, and tell it true.”

“Ylle Thalas of Elyfalume.”

“Ylle Thalas? The capitol across the sea?” The man’s eyebrows were high. “You are a child of the purple city? _Galad’othron?_ ”

“I am,” said Rane steadily.

"Indeed. Well, if you come from Ylle Thalas, then you will know who rules it.”

Rane's fingers tightened a little on the helm of her sword. Arthur remained where he was, hanging back, watching this exchange with bewilderment.

"You don't think I'm really an Elf?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

The man took a step forward, nearing Rane until they were chest to chest, eyeing her, hands still clasped at his back. Arthur made an instinctive move toward them, a little alarmed, but the four at his back grasped the hilts of their swords, watching him warningly. Arthur stepped back again at once, lifting his hands palms-out, staggering a little.

"Alright, alright, take 'er easy . . ."

"Who leads your purple city?" the man asked Rane again, his voice low and a little dangerous despite the easy smile on his face. "Say it true."

“Iliwynn Talaeos.” Rane felt a tremor of anxiety pass through her. Iliwynn had been in charge of Ylle Thalas in ‘97, sure, but she didn’t know how long she’d reigned off the cuff, and if she was wrong she wasn’t sure what these men would do to them. "Before her, Elrohir Nindrol."

The man in the green cloak relaxed at this, and spread his arms in a welcoming gesture, taking a few steps backwards and fixing Rane and Arthur with a winning smile.

“And long may she reign," he said genially. “You are a long, long way from your home. _Man esselya na?_ ”

“ _Nin est_ \- er, my name is Rane. Rane Roth.”

“And who is your close-mouthed mortal companion, Rane Roth?” asked the man, gesturing to Arthur. “Your paramour?”

The men behind him chuckled, smirking. Arthur cleared his throat.

“Arthur Morgan,” he said, and then, feeling ungainly, tipped him a little salute. Rane could have laughed. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

“I am Limdur Eilric,” said the man in the green cloak, sketching an ersatz little bow. "I am lord of these lands. This is my kingsguard," he added, casting a hand back towards his companions.

"Well, Mr., uh, Eilric, it's a pleasure to -"

"Arthur," said Rane sharply, catching his eye and shaking her head. "Nuh-uh."

"You are a man," Limdur said, gesturing toward Arthur.

Arthur looked slightly taken aback by this. "Well yeah, just about, last I checked -"

"And _you_ ," said Limdur, turning his eyes back to Rane, his voice becoming suddenly, shocking cold, "are not of the Eldar. Am I correct in assuming?" He wafted a hand beneath his nose, the motion strangely delicate. "There is a smell about you, my pretty young friend, a smell of perversion. I am too old and too clever to be fooled by a pretty face and her pretty, false words. So tell me, Rane Roth of Ylle Thalas . . ." He reached out and grasped her arm, meeting her gaze. "What are you? Truly?"

Rane looked at him a moment, then lowered her head until her long hair whipped about her forehead, her eyes on the sand. Arthur could see her eyelashes flickering. Limdur jerked her a little.

“Speak, stowaway. We do not suffer mendacity here.”

“I’m a _peredhil,_ ” said Rane, with the air of confessing something deeply shameful.

Limdur scoffed. “There has never lived one in all the ages of men. Prove it.”

“You don’t want me to prove it.”

Limdur gestured gently with one hand, and the four Elves behind him drew swords, looking at her with cold eyes. Arthur tensed, glaring at them.

"Hey, don't you _touch_ her -!"

“You are not in Ylle Thalas, Rane Roth, you are in Hostas, and we are not so indulgent and gentle as our blue-blooded brothers and sisters across the sea.” Limdur threw her back, making her stumble in the sand. “If you choose to make wild claims, you will back them up, or we will cut you both down as liars and defectors, as I have said. These are our shores, and _boe de nastad_ , your handsome friend. He needs help, for he is in far worse a way than you. So speak your truth, or prove to me what you are.”

Arthur was aware of a sudden cooling of the air around them even beneath the hot sun. It was shockingly strong, like falling into ice water. The wind picked up, whisking the sand into an eddy around Rane, and suddenly he realized her eyes had gone from hazel to bright, iridescent blue. When she met the gaze of the Elf who had challenged her, her mouth was set and her fists were clenched at her sides. A strange, blueish-white light was emanating from her, pulsing in time with what Arthur suspected was her heartbeat, quick and hard and rhythmic as she glared at the men before her from beneath her brows, her hair whipping about her. Limdur backed away, startled, his cloak fluttering around him in the sudden wind.

“You asked me to,” said Rane, and lifted a hand toward the four men behind Limdur almost lazily, the gesture no more significant than flapping at an irksome insect. All of them went flying onto their backs, skidding away in the sand, crying out in surprise.

"Enough," said Limdur, taking another step back. " _Enough_ , I said."

Rane's eyes faded back to their usual hazel now, the sand falling as the wind around her died. Limdur eyed her, looking pensive. Behind him, his four companions were getting laboriously to their feet, looking at Rane with clear dislike as they dusted off their tunics.

“ _Peredhil_ indeed,” he murmured, his gaze hard on hers. “They say that the _peredhil_ is an ainur reborn, or so I have heard.”

“So they say.” Rane’s hair flew about her face in the seabreeze as she looked up at him. "I don't know anybody who knows for sure, though, and it hardly matters. I'm as good as one of you, and my friend and I need help, we need water. Please.”

He looked at her a long moment, appraising her, then nodded.

“You will come with me to my city. You and your mortal friend.”

“You won’t harm us.” Rane's eyes were sharp on his. “Neither of us.”

“Never in life,” said Limdur, casting her another winning smile. “Come.”


	24. Hostas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane and Arthur follow their captors into an unknown city

_You know there's two kinds of people that I just can't stand_

_That's a lying woman and a cheating man_

_Don't lie to me_

_Don't you lie to me_

_'Cause it makes me mad I get shook up as a man can be._

**\- Chuck Berry**

_______________

Rane Roth and Arthur Morgan followed after Limdur and his four companions into the thick palm forests beyond the beach. The five Elves moved with unconscious grace, clearly familiar with the territory, slipping between the trees, their cloaks wafting out behind them and their boots making scarcely a sound. But Rane and Arthur, weakened by thirst and toil and sunsickness, struggled to keep up. They leaned on one another heavily, stumbling, their faces shining with sweat, panting.

“Who are they?” Arthur gasped. He coughed hoarsely, covering his mouth with his forearm, his brow furrowed. "I mean, besides who that feller says."

“Elves,” said Rane, low.

Arthur coughed again, shaking his head. “We gotta go find Dutch, we don't have time for this shit -”

“We will.” _If he’s alive_ , Rane didn’t add. “But we’re not gonna be able to find our own assholes if we don’t get some water in us, Arthur, let alone Dutch. I must have barfed up half a gallon of saltwater when I woke up back there, my tongue feels like a piece of carpet.”

This was the truth. She felt as dry as a bone inside, withered and oddly stale, and beneath the heat and beating sun streaming through the palms her head was pounding evilly with every rapid beat of her heart. The chatter of tropical insects and birds overhead was devilishly loud. Arthur was eyeing the Elves ahead of them, his eyes suspicious and bloodshot.

“Rane, what do you know about these fellers?”

“Nothing but what they told us.”

Arthur scoffed. “Oh, horseshit."

Rane hitched what remained of her dress up onto her shoulder, her breath coming quickly, blowing the strands of damp hair away from her face. “Shit, I dunno. Southern accents, not like where I come from. My dad is a yankee from Elyfalume.” She staggered a little, grasping at Arthur’s shoulder. “Teleri, I think, of some kind, sea-faring people. Asking them would insult them, and it hardly matters anyways, we need water and shelter. Beggars and choosers and all that.”

“What’d you do back there? With your eyes?” Arthur glanced over at her, his eyes acute despite his exhaustion. “I ain't seen ya do nothin' like that before."

“Not right now,” Rane muttered, panting. “We can talk about it la -"

She staggered abruptly, her boots catching on one another, and fell into the brush badly, gasping, her eyes lidded and unfocused. Arthur knelt beside her, breathing hard himself.

"Hey, hey, Rane, come on, now, you're alright -!" He pulled her closer to him, placing a hand against her collarbone. Her skin was slick with sweat and almost too warm to bear, and Arthur could feel her heart hammering wildly beneath his touch. "Limdur! Or hell, _somebody_ , hang on! Is it much farther? She's weak, she needs water -!"

Ahead, the five Elves had turned back to them, the patchy sunlight passing through the palms dancing over their clear foreheads. Arthur knelt over Rane, looking at them desperately, panting, his forehead gleaming with sweat.

“Ievos, _rehta_ ,” said Limdur, inclining his head, and one of his men swept forward and lifted Rane into his arms, her hair swinging. Arthur staggered up, grasping at the trunk of a palm, his face running with sweat. Limdur met his eyes, beginning to turn back to their path.

“Come. Summon a bit more strength and you will find shelter. It is not far now.”

  
  


IT wasn’t. They came upon the city a few minutes later, and as Arthur stumbled into the clearing after the Elf carrying Rane (her eyes were slipping open and closed rapidly now as she stared into the sky, her mouth open, lax in his grasp), he nearly went to his knees again. It was a city, massive, alabaster stone twined with wrought iron, the steeples rising into the humid skies above the treeline, a mile across and surrounded by the tropical forests, sago and coconut and rippling seagrass. Parrots, their plumage bright blue and red in the sunlight, flew overhead, crying, and the sunlight dappled across the white walls, shifting with the motion of the swaying palms. It was a beautiful sight, ethereal and otherworldly. He had never seen another like it.

“Welcome to Hostas of Othelin,paramour,” said Limdur over one shoulder, seeing Arthur’s expression and smirking, looking highly amused. “Have your mortal eyes never fallen on an Elven city before? Or have you dwelled only within the hollow wooden burgs of those born to die, with their stinking streets and their pestilential colonists, as most mortals have?”

“No, I ain’t never,” Arthur managed, faint.

“There is no finer city south of Nilen Caelora,” said Limdur, sounding haughty, and laughed. “Let your eyes feast upon it, paramour, for you will never see another of its ilk in your short life.”

They strode on past the grazing horses, climbing the alabaster stairway, Limdur waving aside the guards. Arthur eyed them as they passed, curious in spite of his exhaustion. They wore braided leather armor, their faces hidden by steel helmets, and all of them wore swords on their hips, not like Rane’s but shorter and lighter. He saw their eyes, blue and glinting, follow his progress with grim suspicion.

By the time Limdur threw open a heavy stone door and ushered Arthur in, he was nearly fainting, and far too weak to put on airs about it. He collapsed onto the stone floor at the door’s entry, his hair in disarray, breathing hard. Ievos was setting Rane onto one of the chairs at a stone table near a broad window, where she sat, wavering slightly, her eyes fluttering, her dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. It was cool inside, at least, and a dizzy relief after the beating sun.

“Get up, paramour,” said Limdur, laughing, and lifted his chin at his men. One of the guards yanked Arthur to his feet by the bicep, his strength fearsome and oddly casual, and hauling him up planted him in a chair aside Rane. Arthur grasped the cool stone table before him, listing dangerously to the left, the world doubling and trebling before him. Limdur, who had appeared behind them with a carafe of some sort of silvery liquid, grasped his shoulder and pulled him back up, still smirking easily.

“Hold fast, _fir'mellon_ ,” he said, and planted two ornate silver cups onto the stone table, pouring. Both Rane and Arthur jerked to attention at the sound of the cold liquid striking the metal, their eyes hungry. “Drink before you die. It will keep the life in your chest a few moments longer, at least, so that we may have a few less bodies to burn.”

Neither of them could stand on ceremony at this, not in such dire thirst. Both Arthur and Rane snatched the goblets up and drank greedily, slurping, the silvery liquid running down their chins with impunity, and Limdur smirked, his hands held behind his back and his long hair over his shoulders. Arthur coughed, startled, grasping at his chest. It was strong and heady, like some sort of ale, with a faint salty finish, and it burned like hell going down.

“The hell _is_ it?” he coughed.

Limdur laughed. “Perhaps your pretty Eldarin friend can tell you, if she is worth her gab.”

“ _Miruvor_ ,” Rane gasped, her voice thick, catching her breath around the goblet.

“That it is,” Limdur agreed, taking a seat between them and refilling their goblets. “A tonic for strength. Make quick use of it, for you are both weak.” He eyed Rane, crossing his legs. “Our Northernmore fellows also partake, it would seem? Forgive me, but I always thought it a Southerner's drink.”

“They don’t make it that strong up there,” said Rane honestly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Arthur set his own goblet down, leaning back and rubbing his chest. There was a curious sensation filling him up, not just the subsiding of his terrible thirst but a fortifying of his very core, seeming to fill him from the middle of him. He straightened, peering into the goblet with true bewilderment.

“Feeling better, paramour?” Limdur was leaning back against his stone seat, arm slung over the back of it, watching him with wry amusement.

"Stronger."

Limdur nodded to him, touching his forehead and trailing the fingers away in a gesture Rane was familiar with. "I am glad of it, then. My vintners have not lost their touch, it would seem."

“ _Le’fael_ ,” said Rane, nodding at Limdur, still grasping the goblet in both hands, her breath slowing at last. Her face was sweaty and pale. “Thank you. Honestly.”

“You will thank me with your conversation,” said Limdur.

Rane watched him a trifle warily, setting her goblet aside. “What do you want to know?”

“Where you come from. No, not you, paramour,” Limdur added as Arthur leaned forward, clearly meaning to speak. “You, _peredhil_. I have never met another of your ilk, and I’d know what brings you here, if we are to go forth as friends.”

“I’ve already told you, I came from Ylle Thalas.” Rane was looking up at him from beneath her brows, and Arthur noted once more that one of her hands had strayed to the helm of her sword, not grasping but fingering gently. She didn’t trust these people, clearly. “What else do you want?”

“You do not speak like an Elf of Ylle Thalas,” said Limdur, leaning forward. “And I have met many Elyfalumians. In fact, truly, you do not speak like any Elf I have henceforth encountered.”

Rane eyed him for a long moment. Limdur broke it, laughing, the sound ringing and hearty, filling up the alabaster room. Outside the window, visible between the billowing curtains, the sun continued to ride high, and the tropical creatures' calls were loud and piercing.

"I did not mean your lands, I meant your father. Who is he?" He shifted, stroking his chin. "Was it he who is of the Eldar? Or your mother?"

“My dad. Wade Roth. _Undunai_.”

Limdur laughed, slapping the stone table with the flat of his hand. “ _Rochon’baug_. The _maethor_.”

“You know him?” Rane asked with genuine surprise.

“Everyone knows of the storied _Undunai_.” Limdur laughed again. He seemed full of laughter, though Arthur personally thought that not all of it felt completely genuine. “His reputation stretches across the sea. A lowborn warrior, ascending the ranks without the grace of blood, mustering the _hossë_ and striking down his enemies with impunity. Who _doesn’t_ know of his feats?“

Limdur eyed Rane speculatively.

“It is said, too, that he practices magic, like a common mortal.” His voice was suddenly cool. "It is said that this alone has kept him from the Council. His countrymen's derision."

Rane's eyes became cool, too. Arthur saw her grasping the silver chalice in her hands with white-knuckled tightness. It was clear she took deep offense to this, but she was biting her tongue, something Arthur rarely knew her to do. It made him wonder just how dangerous these people around them truly were.

“Indeed, I have heard much of _Undunai_ , but word has never reached my ears of his offspring."

"Word reached your ears just now," said Rane.

Limdur looked at her silently, stroking his chin, then laughed. "I mean no offense, young one, none at all. I must ask these things of strangers in my house. You understand. If truly you are the daughter of a lowborn Vanyar, than we are kinsmen, you and I, even if born so far apart."

Rane understood that he wasn't talking about distance and had a moment to find a chilly dislike for him. She didn't betray it, however, only nodded, still clutching her cup. They needed to take what supplies these Elves were willing to part with and make their way out of Hostas, that much was clear. Rane was no great judge of character, but Limdur seemed to her like the sort of Elf who would stab you through the heart as quickly as he would bow you into his chambers.

"So who is this man you bring before us?” said Limdur, gesturing. "Arthur Mordred."

"Morgan. And he's a hired gun I fell in with," said Rane, meeting his eyes. She smirked, then shrugged. "And my paramour."

The men standing behind them laughed. Arthur, who had never heard this word before, looked around at them, his brow furrowed, unable to discern if this was an insult.

“You are bold to take a mortal," said Limdur, chuckling as well. "As fickle as the seas, they say, flitting between lovers like sharks flit between prey."

" _Hey_!" said Arthur, a trifle reproachfully.

Rane merely smiled demurely, shaking her head. Arthur saw a flash of genuine anger in her eyes, sharp and cold as steel, and was surprised Limdur seemed not to notice.

"Well, it's a calculated risk."

“Very well, very well, I will stop my jest. _Goheno'nin_.” Limdur got to his feet, chortling. “I have never met a _peredhil_ , and I am still not sure I have, but we will grant you shelter here for the night nevertheless, and food and drink, if you should require it.”

Rane looked at him in slight alarm at this. "We have to find our friends. They could be hurt."

Arthur glanced out the window. The sun was setting soon; the horizon was growing red across the palm fields. Limdur followed his gaze.

“You will not survive a night unaided on this island,” he said, stroking his chin, his bright blue eyes glimmering. “Not even if you were laden with our supplies. There are others who dwell here who are less accommodating than us. Not Elves but men, and men are far more barbaric. Your friend's weapons surely will not work any longer, Rane Roth."

"I can take care of us."

"No. They outnumber you. And you are weak."

“But we _need_ to find them,” said Rane, looking at him sharply. “We lost them in the shipwreck.”

“Aye, you must. Those who leave their friends behind are untrue indeed.” Limdur eyed her. “Fear not, Rane Roth and Arthur Melkor. We have seen them. They are alive.”

" _Morgan_ ," said Rane, a trifle impatiently.

“You’ve _seen_ them?” Arthur leaned forward from his seat, looking at Limdur. “ _Where_?”

“Not far from here.” Limdur lifted his chin toward the window. “They have met with others. Your leader, the black-haired man -”

“Dutch.” said Rane and Arthur at once. Limdur nodded.

“Yes. He has befriended them. You have nothing to fear. They are safe. And you will rest here tonight.”

Arthur glanced at Rane, who sighed, rubbing her forehead and wincing against the pain of the sunburn there.

"No, Limdur -"

"Enough." Limdur got up. “You will stay here tonight and rest. I insist. Rest, before you join your frivolous friend. There will be food later, and this will be your quarters.” He glanced between them, smirking, then added, “surely you will not argue us bedding you down with your paramour in the same room, _peredhil?_ And indoors, no less?”

“We have _got_ to _go_ ,” said Rane sharply, getting up, grasping the hilt of her sword.

“Careful,” said Limdur, and as her eyes met his own, he smiled, his own hand grasping the sheathed sword that hung at his belt. “You are young and not so quick as you think, daughter of _Undunai_. If you try to fight us, we will prevail. Even with your magic, for do not think we have not seen your second weapon, the one hidden in your boot. Doubt it not.”

“Why are you doing this?” Rane asked, her voice rough.

“Because you need rest,” said Limdur steadily. “And because you are too stubborn to accept it, or to see how weak you are." He gestured at Arthur. "Your friend is very ill, as he knows well. He cannot continue without rest, lest he hasten his fate."

Rane looked at Arthur sharply, her eyes suddenly searching his face. Limdur went on heedless.

"My loyalty is with Elfkind, and I will not let one tear off to kill herself. Half-blood or not. Strengthen yourselves, then you may go.” He squeezed her shoulder. “A single night. Partake of our food and drink. We mean no harm, but we will not allow you to leave us while you are weak enough to perish.”

Rane glared at Limdur a moment, then pulled her shoulder away.

“Fine.”

Limdur looked pleased, and clasped his hands behind his back, inclining his head at her. "My people will bring clothes and meat when the sun sets. Rest."

He glanced at Arthur, then turning swept from the room. There was the click of a lock being turned as he left.


	25. A Safe Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane and Arthur are taken hostage, and must make the best of it

_I said "Make me love myself, so that I might love you"_   
_Don't make me a liar, 'cause I swear to God_   
_When I said it, I thought it was true._

**\- Lincoln**

____________________

As the door snicked shut behind Limdur, Rane got up, sighing, and strode to the window and onto the balcony, peering over the railing. They were high - six stories, perhaps less, perhaps a little more. The palms wavered lazily far beneath them. She sighed, striking at the alabaster stone before her with a gentle fist, her brows furrowed. Arthur, meanwhile, had walked to the door and tried it, finding it locked up so tight the heavy knob didn’t even turn.

“Trapped by my own fucking people,” Rane said roughly. “What a shitshow.”

“So much for followin’ a bunch of strangers sportin’ too many clothes for a climate like this,” said Arthur, sounding grimly amused. He turned back from the door, striding toward the balcony. “I coulda told ya that, if you’da listened. Never trust a man wearin’ a cloak in the tropics. If I said it once, I said it a hundred times.”

“What is that, like a rule you sellsword types follow?” Rane said, smirking, peering off over the lands. In spite of herself, she had to admire it. The green fronds of the palm forest rode high in the wind, and beyond the white beach stretched, and beyond that still, the sea, blue as a summer sky and glittering. The sun was a red hoop, falling to the horizon, cast through with pink and purple clouds. Tropical birds flew here and there below, their colorful wings flapping.

“Yeah, among a few others. Pretty, ain’t it?” Arthur had reached Rane’s side and leaned over the railing at her side, eyeing the sunset. “Even with all this hell, you gotta admit it.”

“Prettier than a storm on the ocean while you’re in a shitty little boat, I guess.”

“Them fellers ain’t gonna let us leave. That much is clear enough.”

“Yeah, I can’t say I’m sold on Southern hospitality,” Rane agreed. “They’re a little bit more polite where I’m from. I know Limdur’s doing it out of kindness but he goes about it like a bull in a china shop. Did you hear him talking about me and my dad like the unwashed masses or something? I mean, at least have some civility about it . . .”

Arthur glanced at her. “You think you could get us out? Apparate us to the ground or somethin’? I ain’t gonna be much use without my irons.”

Rane shook her head, shifting her weight and chewing on her thumbnail, the wind blowing her long hair about her face. “I don’t know the lay of the land well enough. And even if I did, when they caught up with us they’d cut us down like we were nothing, Arthur, for insulting their hospitality if for nothing else. These people are better than I’ll ever be. Some of them are ten, maybe fifteen hundred years old from the looks of them. They’ll anticipate everything I could ever conjure up a second before I even thought of it.”

Arthur scoffed. “The hell you say, ten and fifteen hundred years old?”

Rane looked over at him, still chewing her thumbnail, smirking a little. “Elves are immortal, Arthur. I thought with Limdur calling you my mortal paramour every five minutes you’d have cottoned onto that.”

Arthur took a moment to absorb this, gnawing on his fingernails. “He don’t look a day over forty to me. Maybe younger.”

Rane shrugged noncommittally, her eyes on the palm forests below.

“How old are _you_?” Arthur asked her bluntly. “You fifteen hundred years old too?”

“Twenty-seven.” Rane looked at him, smiling. “What about you?”

“Thirty-six last I counted,” said Arthur, and cast her a mournful look. “Too old for the likes of you, I’m afraid.”

Rane snorted, shifting her weight. “If you say so.”

“You ain’t like them? Livin’ forever, I mean?”

“I’m only half-Elf, no one knows if I’m immortal,” said Rane, and a curious expression came over her face at these words, turning her lighthearted gaze dark and introspective.

Arthur sighed, his eyes roving over the horizon. There was a sound behind them, and both turned. A woman was striding in, one of the most beautiful that Arthur had ever seen, bearing a plate laden with food and wine, a stack of folded clothes over her arm. Her long blond hair wafted behind her, and her eyes traced their motions as they drew near, a demure smile on her face.

“ _Ni’lassui_ ,” said Rane, inclining her head. She glanced at Arthur, elbowing him in the ribs, her voice dropping. He grunted, surprised. “Say it. Means thank you.”

“Nee-lass-wee,” said Arthur haltingly.

The woman looked at Arthur, who was staring at her helplessly, and her smile became brilliant. She giggled as she set the tray onto the stone table, then looked at Rane and gestured to him.

“ _Cin’melda ce vanimel, nin’hiril._ ”

Rane’s face tightened a little at this, and when she spoke her voice was a touch brusque. “ _Hantanyel_.”

“ _Lostoe’vae_ ,” said the woman, still watching Arthur, and sketched an elegant curtsy at him, her eyes sparkling. “ _Y’ollo vae._ ”

She vanished from the room in a swirl of robes, shutting it behind her. Rane cast a decidedly cool glance towards Arthur, brushing past him and making toward the table.

“Wow. She was awfully purty.”

Rane scoffed roughly. “She was probably born before your grandfather’s grandfathers were still pissing in their diapers, Arthur. You wanna talk about being too old for somebody, you can start right there.”

“Still.” Arthur watched Rane, a little smile playing about his mouth. He’d never had occasion to see a woman jealous on his behalf and it interested him, even if in an admittedly lowly way. Her eyes were hard and fierce on the ground as she moved beside him, her hair swinging. He pressed a bit further out of a touch of dirty pride. “Not hard on the eyes.”

“Well, my friend, you’re used to filthy hookers in taverns, I’m sure, and I don’t fault you for it. Elven women, now.” Rane threw a chunk of meat into her mouth and began to sort through the clothing, chewing and scowling. “Let's just say you’re not the first mortal to clap eyes on one and turn into a blubbering idiot.”

Arthur snorted. "Blubbering . . . I ain't _blubbering_ , hell. What'd she say, anyway?"

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on, _you_ know.” Arthur sat down, choosing a chunk of steaming meat from the tray and trying it tentatively. It was unspeakably tender and delicious, some sort of venison. “Tell me.”

“She said you were handsome,” said Rane gruffly as she rifled through the stack of clothes. “Then she wished you sweet dreams, probably knowing they’d be about her. So now you can put your eyes back into your head. Happy?”

“She _didn’t_.” Arthur cast Rane a look of ersatz scandal. “Ugly old bastard like me? Lady that purty, no less -!”

Rane shoved a stack of clothes into Arthur's chest with a tad more force than necessary as she strode past him, glaring up at him as she did.

“I’m only jokin’ with ya, goddamn,” said Arthur, laughing. “Quit gettin’ all mad, Christ.”

“Turn your head, I’m changing,” said Rane, flapping the tunic out before her, sounding caustic. 

Arthur did, pulling the stone chair up and facing it aft, the legs scraping against the stone-flagged floor, but of course he could not quite bring himself to belay a glance over his shoulder. Rane was pulling the tattered black dress over her shoulders, her head hung irritably, her long hair dangling over her back. He had never seen her naked before - indeed, he could count on one hand how many women he’d seen nude in the past two or three years - and he was helpless not to admire her; the long slope of her back, smooth in the reddening sunlight. The curve of her hips. The way the long muscles in her shoulders flexed as she folded the black dress up and flung it away.

“I can see your reflection in the window, Arthur,” she said, her eyes still turned away, and Arthur looked away, flushing a little.

“Sorry.”

Rane, pulling on the tunic, glanced over at him, smirking a little beneath her hair. “Thought you were all hung up on your girlfriend.”

“Ain’t her I’m hung up on,” Arthur murmured, low, still facing pointedly in the other direction. Rane, smoothing the fabric over her lean torso, smiled despite herself.

“Here, drink,” she said, popping into the seat next to him lithely and pouring a goblet full of wine. For her part, she seemed a bit more warm after seeing Arthur eyeballing her. “This stuff isn’t _miruvor_ but they make some good beverage, these folks.”

“I believe I’d kill for a cigarette,” said Arthur, pulling the goblet toward him and sipping experimentally. Rane was right; it was fine, incredibly smooth, not bitter but sweet and lovely. “ _Damn_ , but ain’t that good.”

“Told ya.” Rane was pouring herself a goblet too, her long hair in her face. “Take it easy on the bread, though, that’s _lembas_. Fills the belly of a grown ass man in half a minute. You’ll be throwing up out the window.”

“Well, I'll keep that in mind, miss,” said Arthur, and threw back the rest of his wine, holding his goblet out for a refill. “Go on, top a feller off.”

“You trying to get drunk or something?” Rane eyed him, smirking.

Arthur shrugged, snatching the pitcher up himself when Rane made no move to and pouring himself out another goblet. “Well, there ain’t much else to do while we’re tucked away in this big bastard city under lock and key.”

“Scoundrel.”

“Ain’t I,” said Arthur again. He tilted his glass toward her, winking rather lecherously. “Drink and find out.”

  
  


THE night fell star-spangled and lovely. No more Elves came to treat with them, which was to Arthur’s liking. He relished time alone with Rane, though he was not eloquent enough to say so, and kept close to her. Midnight found them on the balcony, their bare feet dangling through the railings, admiring the humid night sky beyond, goblets of wine in their hands, both quite drunk.

“Susan,” said Rane, glancing over at him, smirking.

Arthur laughed. “She was Dutch’s girl before Molly. He'd have killed me where I stood.”

“Susan and Dutch? _Really_?”

“Really.” Arthur drank deeply and set his goblet down with a clang. “He loved her once. Damn near woulda died for her. I dunno what happened. Tired of her, I reckon. Molly O’Shea turned up, prettier and younger.”

“Typical dude.” Rane drank too, her long hair blowing in the breeze. Above them, stars crossed the sky, lovely and clear. “Mary-Beth, then, what about her?”

Arthur snorted. “She’d never have me.”

“Sounds to me like you've entertained the idea.” Rane was smirking, both hands on the alabaster pillars beneath the railing.

“You sure do like to ask questions.”

“And you sure do hate to answer them.” Rane eyed him wryly. “So you like her.”

"I like you."

"Pretty backsliding way to say 'yes.'"

Arthur laughed. “You know, sometimes I think you’re layin’ traps just in the hopes that I step into ‘em.”

“Oh, please, listen to you, clutching your pearls. I'm not laying traps, I'm just _asking_ , sheesh." Rane was laughing. "She puppydogs it _hard_ around you, Arthur. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed it.”

Arthur snorted. "Well, maybe she does and maybe she don't. That girl ain't even twenty-two yet, she's barely past bein' a damn teenager."

"Five years younger than me," Rane remarked lightly. "You're robbing the cradle, buddy, one way or another."

"Oh, hell." Arthur drank long, staring off into the sky. "Ain't even the same and you know it."

"Oh?" Rane eyed him over her goblet. "How so?"

"Rane, Mary Beth is just a naive little thing with her nose in a book," said Arthur, giving her a look of reproach. "I don't think I ever saw a gun in that girl's hand. Then we got you over here, miss woe-betide-you with your sword and your loud ass cussin' mouth, the wrong wheel to fall asleep at and all that . . . you see what I mean? That's oranges and apples, sweetheart! You ain't dumb, you know what I'm talkin' about!"

They were both laughing now. Rane rolled her head back on her shoulders, grinning sheepishly.

"I guess, asshole."

" _Yeah_ , you guess." Arthur sipped his wine, still smirking. "Who else you think I scratched my bedpost for, huh? We gonna run down the whole list of every lady at camp?"

“Well, there's Abigail, but I think your guilty-ass face whenever I bring her up sort of says it all. _That_ one, right there," Rane added, pointing at him as Arthur flushed a little.

"You know, I ain't so sure I like this turn of conversation so much," said Arthur, looking at her. "Why the hell you wanna know anyways?"

Rane shrugged, her eyes on the sky, deceptively disinterested. Arthur sighed, then threw in his cards.

“Alright, there might’ve been a time, yeah, years ago, back when she was still just a workin' girl fell in with our lot. But she didn’t want me, she wanted John goddamned Marston, just like most of the women I’ve ever been interested in. You among ‘em,” he added cantankerously, glowering into the distance.

Rane scoffed. Arthur looked at her, shifting his weight, enjoying this brief vanguard.

“Hey, I get it, he’s young and good-lookin' and fast-talkin'.” He gestured irritably. “All that black hair and them big ol’ eyes . . . hell. I can’t compete with that. Hadn’t been able to for ten damn years.”

Rane scoffed again, shaking her head, reddening a little. Arthur watched her over his goblet, the night wind teasing his hair back from his temples. His gaze was cold and hurt.

“So how was he?”

“Not bad,” said Rane, meeting his eyes. “How was Abigail?”

“Not bad, either.” Arthur maintained her gaze levelly, not giving ground. “You know, you’re jealous as hell for somebody who’s got half the goddamned gang in love with her.”

Rane looked away, skeptical “Oh please, I don’t -”

Arthur ticked off on his fingers. “John. Javier. Sean, Charles. Hell, even Dutch -”

“Dutch doesn’t give the veriest shit about me, Arthur, besides what I can do with my goddamn wand. You _know_ that, because he told you, _twice_ , that he wanted me around specifically for that reason. I know, I heard him say it," she added.

“Dutch looked at Molly a lot like he looks at you, Rane, back when he first happened on her,” said Arthur, low. He could feel his heart beating a little faster in his chest and had a moment to reflect on the fact that Rane wasn't the only jealous one on this balcony. “I believe that if it wasn’t for me and John he’d have put the moves on ya long ago, and never mind all his bluster.”

“And what makes you think I'd just bend over like a bred mare if he did, exactly?" Rane snapped, a trifle vitriolic. "You know, just because all y'all think the sun shines out of that man's ass doesn't mean the rest of us do, and anyways, Dutch isn't stupid enough to try anything like that in the first place. He's got a weapon in his hand and he won't compromise it over something dumb like that -"

“Yeah, well, no man is smarter than his own cock, not even Dutch,” Arthur murmured.

“Does that include you?” Rane asked him, lifting her eyebrows high and smirking a little.

“You tryin’ to say I’m stupid?”

Rane glanced at him, her eyes acute beneath her brows. “Do _you_ think you’re stupid? Because I think you’re smarter than you let on. You should be the one heading that bunch back there, not Dutch. Dutch is . . .”

“Dutch is what?” Arthur’s voice had become dangerous, and Rane had not heard the cool tone in it since he had threatened her with pain of death if John Marston met with harm on her behalf days before. The man's claws came out when it came to his family, that much was becoming clear. “Dutch is _what_ , exactly?”

“Compromised,” said Rane, meeting his eyes. “Dutch is compromised.”

“By what?”

“I haven't got the foggiest idea, Arthur. I just met him a week ago.”

“Then how can you tell?”

“How can you _not_?” said Rane, her eyes hard and glittering in the low light. "Would you say Dutch Van Der Linde is the picture of mental stability, Arthur? That his behavior isn't, I dunno, a little bit fucking _weird_ at times? Listen to the man talk!"

Arthur looked into her eyes, his gaze cold and assessing, seemingly wanting to say more, but presently, far below, the sound of music came to them. Arthur looked down, disarmed. There were men and women on horseback, their progress tracked with blue flags that flickered in the night air and dim torches. A song rose from them, one more beautiful than Arthur could have ever put into words, rippling and ethereal, audible even at their height. Rane eyed them, her mouth pursed over her flagon, then sketched that same curious gesture Limdur had earlier - she touched her forehead and trailed her fingers away into the air.

" _Namárië_ ," she murmured, her voice a little reverential.

“Where are they going?” asked Arthur, peering down.

“To the Grey Havens,” she said quietly. “To rest.”

Arthur nodded. “To die.”

“No. They’ll never die. Not exactly.” She glanced at him. "I'm not sure I know how to explain it."

“Why do you say ‘they’? Why not ‘us’?” Arthur was looking over at her shrewdly.

Rane sighed, leaning her cheek against the stone pillar before her. The grounds stretched on beneath them, caught by fireflies, and her hair whipped about in the breeze.

“Because I’m not one of them.”

“How you mean?”

“I’m a bastard.” Rane’s eyes cut to his. “And they don’t let Sindarin bastards into _Mithlond_. I’m the only half-Elf, and I’ll die here for it, one way or another. That’s just the way of things.”

"That how you did that thing with your eyes, back there on that beach?" Arthur gestured to his own face. "And all that light? Because you're a bastard?"

"It's a long story, but yeah." Her eyes traced the motions of the horses far below. "Really long story."

"There ain't more like you."

Rane shook her head. "No."

"And your daddy knew that?"

Rane smirked without humor. "All too well. His people exiled him because of me, for a little while. And none of them like me a whole lot. They think I'm a . . . a travesty of nature, sort of. I'm surprised Limdur was as cool about it as he was."

Arthur snorted derisively. "He wasn't cool about it at all, he was about to run ya through."

Rane shrugged noncommittally, not commenting on this. Arthur eyed her a moment longer, deciding whether to pursue this, then turned his eyes back to the progression of Elves below. The song echoing up was still loud in the silence, broken only by the crickets and the breeze. In the end he opted out of pressing her further, not only because of the grim look on her face as she watched the procession of singing Elves but because he was a touch frightened of the prospect of breaching the subject himself. It felt strangely personal, and strangely religious, and he felt an unspoken, subtle barrier that Rane had drawn around this subject. He loved her, but he didn't know her every nuance yet, and this felt like something to pursue some other time.

“I’m sorry I looked at ya earlier. While you were getting undressed.”

Rane snorted. “You're apologizing for that instead of eye-fucking the Elf who brought us food? What a funny dude.”

“Well, I thought with John Marston and all, you’d understand about a wanderin’ eye.”

Rane got up abruptly and strode inside, her hair whirling, snatching her goblet. Arthur silently cursed himself, then rose and followed.

“Hey, I didn’t mean that. My mouth runs off sometimes, Rane.”

"It's fine." Rane was refilling her goblet with her back to him, her long hair hanging in her face. "I gave you the third degree about Abigail so I guess we're square."

Arthur looked at her, then set his goblet down on the table, sitting on the bed. "Can I ask ya somethin'? Since I'm drunk and my mouth is goin' off anyways?"

"God help you if it's about John Marston," Rane muttered, sipping her wine.

"It ain't. Look . . ." Arthur leaned forward, clasping his hands and steeling himself a little. "How come you don't like to be undressed in front of me?"

Rane looked at him in surprise. "How do you mean?"

"Well, the two times we was together -" Arthur shrugged, feeling a little humbled in spite of the wine in his belly. "You ain't never . . . I mean . . . hell, I dunno."

He trailed off, a little pink, already regretting bringing this up at all. Rane rose, setting her wine on the side table, and strode toward him. She leaned down and kissed him softly, one hand on his thigh, allowing her mouth to cover his completely, her tongue caressing his lip, slow and gentle. It was deep, utterly sensuous, and Arthur felt his shoulders loosen a little at her touch. She drew back, her eyes on his, her thumb caressing the little lilting scar on his chin.

"Do you wanna see me naked?" she asked him. "Is that what you're trying to say?"

Arthur looked up at her, feeling a little out of sorts. "I didn't -"

"It's okay to say yes. You country boys are so goddamned chaste, I swear to God."

Arthur said nothing. No woman had ever asked him this so baldly, and he wasn't sure how to respond. Rane, seeming to intuit his answer anyway, stood and pulled her tunic over her head and her trousers off leg by leg, tossing them aside, then faced Arthur, her eyes meeting his. He diverted his gaze at once, instinctive.

"Look at me, Arthur."

He did, turning his eyes back to her, and his gaze roved over her body, helpless.

"I'm not afraid to let you see me," said Rane, her long hair hanging in her face and her eyes sparkling beneath her brows. "I'm not afraid to let _anyone_ see me, least of all you. I want you to. So see me."

Arthur did. Then, with a motion made awkward by the drink he'd had, he yanked off his shirt and jeans and tossed them aside, feeling strange. He had never been a man accustomed to being nude in front of a woman, even during his saloon escapades, and it felt strange and vulnerable to be standing before her that way, but he did it nonetheless, his eyes on hers, his hair tousled and in his face. He sat back onto the bed, feeling hapless. He was uncomfortably aware of his cock, which was harder than a goddamned diamond and brushing his thigh, as well as his heart, which was pounding in his chest at the sight of this girl before him, but it was done now, one way or another. He hated to be laid bare this way, always had.

"There," he said roughly.

"Why not before?" Rane asked him quietly, looking at him.

"Afraid, I guess." Arthur laughed, grim. "And sober."

Rane strode to him, straddling him where he sat, and pressed herself against his chest, taking his face in her hands the way she always did. Arthur looked up at her, grasping her thighs where she'd strung them about his lap, squeezing gently. She smiled, looking astoundingly beautiful in the torchlight, and moved closer, her hair tickling his temples. She ran her palms over his chest, pressing against the firm muscle there, liking the way it swelled with his heavy breath.

"Does your heart always beat this hard or is it just when naked girls are around?" Rane asked him, and moved against him, her long legs tight against his thighs, strong and smooth and ineffably fetching. Arthur gasped a little, his breath harsh.

"Only does that for you."

"Bet it did when that girl came in earlier."

Arthur pulled her to him by her waist and in a quick motion placed himself inside her as far as he could go, his back tensing. She sighed roughly, her face falling into an expression of lax, helpless pleasure that ignited all sorts of things within him.

"Only you," he said, and presently he thrust hard, his grip firm on her lean waist. "Only you."

"Big talk," Rane said, looking down at him, her hands on his neck, her eyes on his. "From a guy who -"

In a motion so sinuous Rane barely traced it, Arthur flipped her over and placed her on the bed, his heels digging into the stone floor, grasping her thighs in his hands. His movements became quicker as his eyes roved over her body, overcome, his hair in his eyes and his heart pounding madly inside him. He had thought about her naked like this more times than he could count since the night he'd carried her to Dutch from the Pinkerton camp, often with one hand in his jeans and his heart hammering beneath his shirt, and the revelation of her lying before him like this was sweeter than he could have imagined even as a man.

Rane stared up at him, drunk and knowing it, tracing the curve of his shoulders and the jut of his collarbone, loving every inch of him, and for a moment it was almost too much for her to handle. She could not have felt more strongly for this man if she tried, and all the hands of hell wouldn't be able to drag her from him now. It was terrifying in its clarity.

"I love you." She pulled his mouth back to hers as he drove into her. "God, I do. So fucking much."

"I know. I love you too. We ought not, somebody's gonna come in and see us -"

"Let them," said Rane, and kissed him hard, loving the taste of him. "Let them."

AFTER, as they lay wound together, Rane propped herself up on an elbow and looked toward the window, her expression strange. Arthur paused stroking her thighs to glance at her.

"What's that look mean?"

Rane turned her gaze on him, chewing her lip, her hair a little tousled.

"How long have you known?" she asked finally.

"Known what?"

"That you're sick."

Arthur felt his heart sink. Here they were. He'd seen the way she'd looked at him when Limdur had said he was ill, and had hoped it had skated past her, but it had been a fool's hope from the first. It had been a few weeks since the doctor in Saint Denis had given him the news, and he thought he'd hidden it fairly well. Not well enough, clearly. He looked at her a moment longer, deciding where to start and whether to lie.

"Was it what Limdur said? That why you're askin'?"

"That and you coughing like a lunatic every five minutes. I'm not a doctor but I'm also not an idiot. How bad is it?"

She met his eyes in the gloom, and Arthur leaned forward and kissed her gently, stroking her cheek. Rane pulled away from him, sitting up.

"How bad is it?" she repeated.

Arthur shook his head, looking at her. "Bad."

" _How_ bad?"

Arthur struggled, his brow knit. Rane gave him a moment, then rolled over him, straddling him, and placed both her hands on his cheeks, her hair falling around her face. In that moment, with her face lit by the torchlight and her mouth full and turned down, she was so beautiful that she seemed to suck all the air out of the room, and Arthur realized with a sinking heart that he would not be able to lie to her, not about this and likely not about much else.

"I don't want to hear any more bullshit, Arthur, and I've been working up the courage to ask you about this all evening, so the least you can do is level with me. Now how goddamned bad is this thing? _How bad_?"

Arthur met her eyes unhappily, his brow knitted. "I ain't gonna get better."

Rane looked at him for a long moment, her eyes filling with tears, seeing the truth in his gaze. When she spoke her voice was low and accusatory.

"You didn't tell me."

"No, I didn't tell ya." Arthur held her gaze fast, not backing away. He was grateful for the wine now. He would not have been able to meet her eyes if he'd been sober, not for this.

"Why?"

"Because you woulda run," said Arthur, hating himself for saying it out loud. It was true; he'd have not risked losing her for anything, even the knowledge of his own impending doom, and he thought the worms crawling in the dirt in the fields below might have been bigger men than he was in that moment. "You woulda run. And I didn't want ya to, because I love you too goddamned much, Rane."

Rane grasped his shoulder and shook him roughly, the tears now spilling from her eyes. "That's a shit reason. Are you dying?"

"Yes." Arthur looked into her eyes, not resisting.

Rane released him roughly, leaning up, then unstrung her legs from about him, sitting on the side of the bed, her feet on the floor. She was staring at the ground, her mouth pursed and her brows furrowed. Arthur sat up too, watching her, hating himself. There were tears falling from her eyes, silent and unheeded; she brushed them roughly away with the heels of her hands, the muscles in her lean torso flexing with her breath. She didn't meet his eyes, and Arthur was truthfully afraid to break the silence.

"How long?" she asked at last, low.

"How long have I known about it?"

"If I wanted to hear more lies I'd ask for them," said Rane, her voice terribly cold. "How long do you _have_ , Arthur. That's what I meant."

"I won't lie to ya. Not about this."

"Lying by omission is still lying."

Arthur looked at her unhappily a moment, then reached out and took her hand in his. She ripped it away from him, her mouth turned down in a sneer beneath her damp eyes.

"No. Answer me."

"I don't know." Arthur looked up at her steadily. She was crying openly now, the tear streaming from her eyes, and Arthur's heart broke a little at the sight of it. He could think of nothing he wanted less than to make this woman cry. "I don't know, Rane, I don't think anybody could say one way or another, not even the doc."

"You saw a _doctor_ about this?" Rane cast him a betrayed look. "And _still_ didn't think to say something to me?"

Arthur lifted his hands and let them fall back to the mattress. "I'm a selfish bastard, Rane. I'm sorry."

"What did he tell you?"

"He told me it was tuberculosis. Said it was progressive, that I oughta get someplace warm and dry."

Rane leaned back, her eyes on Arthur's, shaking her head faintly. " _Tuberculosis_."

"That's what the doctor told me, anyway."

Rane got to her feet, still nude, placing a hand on her forehead and laughing without humor. After a moment she went to the table and drank a large mouthful of wine directly from the flagon, the red liquid smattering on the floor around her bare feet. Arthur watched her miserably, frowning. She wiped her mouth indelicately with the back of her hand, leaned over the table for a moment, then took another swig, her long hair dangling down her back as she did.

"Tuberculosis," she said again, not looking at him.

"You know what it is, I take it."

"Yeah, I know what it is, Arthur." Rane turned to look at him, still wiping her mouth, looking grim and beautiful in the low light. "Do _you_ know what it is? You know what _cancer_ is? Or _rabies_? Or fucking _polio_? Are you planning on treating this shit with cocaine and fucking leeches, is that where I'm at right now? In the fucking dark ages, when people can still get goddamned motherfucking _tuberculosis_?"

Arthur looked at his hands. "I know what it is, Rane, yeah."

Rane shook her head, her eyes forbidding. "You should have told me, Arthur."

"Well, maybe so."

"No, not _maybe_ _so_ , you should have TOLD me!" Rane said, her voice rising angrily. "The second we were standing on that road in front of Shady Belle, listening to me carry on, you should have told me!" She flapped a hand, glaring at him. "Hell, you should have probably told me in that fucking cave, matter of fact, you walked away from there knowing full well how I felt about you -!"

"That ain't true." Arthur's voice was low and ashamed. "I didn't know you thought of me at all, Rane, that's the truth."

Rane scoffed, turning, the muscles in her thighs flexing. "You like to pretend you're stupid, Arthur Morgan, and I'll go to my grave not understanding why, but you and I both know otherwise."

"Rane, I don't know how you get off makin' me out all clever about women!" Arthur burst out, gaping at her. "You already forgot how shitless-scared I was tellin' you how I felt? You think I'd have acted that way if I thought you already - ?"

"You _knew about this_! You knew and you still just - just let me fall in love with you knowing that you -!"

Arthur bristled at this. " _Let_ you? Who the fuck said I _let_ you do anything -?"

"'Hey, Rane, by the way, before you get too deep into this, you oughta know I got TB,'" Rane said coarsely, imitating Arthur's accent with rather cruel accuracy. "'Just in case you wanna, y'know, maybe pick a feller what's gonna stick around more'n six months!'"

"That ain't fair," Arthur murmured, a little affronted. "I didn't ask for this anymore than you did, Rane."

"Well, I guess it's too fucking late now, huh?" Rane's voice suddenly rose to a strident, hoarse shout, and with one hand she batted the goblet from the table full-force, sending it flying with a clatter. "YOU SAID YOU WOULDN'T DIE! YOU PROMISED ME! YOU _PROMISED_!"

Arthur watched her a long, long moment, his eyes flitting between hers. Rane's hair hung in her eyes and her skin was lit by the torchlight, vulnerable in her nudity but just as furious and hurt. After a moment he wrung his hands between his bare knees, leaning forward a little, the scant flesh against his lean torso bunching, his pared jaw clenched and his eyes repentant and glittering beneath his brows. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he rocked back and forth a little, harrowed and crestfallen.

"Rane," he said softly, shaking his head, his voice breaking a little. "I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry."

"Sorry doesn't unbreak that promise you made, Arthur, and it sure as fuck doesn't take back that lie you told me," Rane replied, her voice very low, the tears still streaming from her eyes.

She gave a little hiccup - not quite a sob - but the sound of it, a crack in her hard exterior over the likes of him, made Arthur's heart cramp with misery. He got to his feet as if to make for her, but - perfect timing - he began to cough hoarsely into his arm. He fell back onto the bed, nude and unguarded, bent over, letting it pass, his face red and the cords in his neck standing out. Rane watched him, her gaze cold, then striding to the table poured a goblet of wine. She took it to him and extended it, still frowning, and he took it gratefully, drinking with both hands, his eyes squeezed shut.

"You gonna leave me?" he asked her gruffly, wiping at his mouth and placing the goblet aside. "That what you're gonna do now?"

"I'd have to be with you to leave you."

"Ain't ya?"

Rane's mouth pursed at this, more tears falling from her eyes. She took a few steps toward him and knelt before him, grasping his shins in her hands, looking up into his face, the anger falling away from her.

"Am I?" she asked softly.

Arthur shook his head, placing the goblet aside. "I sure as hell hope you are."

Rane met his eyes a moment longer, then she put her face into his lap and dissolved into tears, her bare shoulders heaving and her legs curled beneath her, coltish. Arthur put his hand on her head, feeling tears of his own threatening. He'd never had occasion to apologize for his own fate to someone else, and this girl was the first besides the doctor that knew what would happen to him. It was strange and awful, and he wished to be anywhere else.

"Don't." He got down and knelt before her, taking her face in his hands. She turned it toward him, tear-stained and unbearably beautiful, and it was almost more than he could stand. "Don't do that, Rane. Ain't nothin' certain."

"You promised," she whispered, looking at him.

"I know I did, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He was weeping now himself, probably the wine, and shook his head, giving into it. What the hell. "You know you're the only goddamned thing I love in this world and I'd sooner die than hurt ya. But some things I just can't control, and this is one of 'em. Doesn't mean I love you any less, Rane. I'd take you for my own if I could. Marry ya and live in a shitty little house for the rest of my days."

Rane shook her head, her brows knitted, and placed her forehead on Arthur's chest, crying in earnest. He wrapped his arms around her as they knelt there on the floor, holding her to him tight, feeling tears streaming from his own eyes and staring off toward the balcony.

"Never took you for the cryin' type."

"I'm not," said Rane, soft against his chest, and he felt her hand reach out and grasp his tightly. Arthur squeezed it and lay his cheek on the crown of her head.

"Me neither," he said gently, his tears falling into her hair. "Me neither, girl."


	26. New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few locals grant the broken Van Der Linde gang shelter on Guarma

_Abandon all reason_   
_Avoid all eye contact_   
_Do not react_   
_Shoot the messengers._

**\- Radiohead**

_______________________

THEY were striding from the steps of Hostas well before midday, clad now in Elven garb. Limdur had given each of them a pair of Eldarin-forged boots, and Arthur felt about a mile high in them. They were fashioned of some kind of cured leather, black and shining and incredibly dense, inlayed with a strange, lilting text. He’d never owned a sharper pair. As they reached the sandy ground before the gates of Hostas, one of Limdur’s companions thrust a leather satchel into Rane’s hand. She looked inside, curious; it was laden with more _lembas_ and meat, and another flagon of Elvish wine, rippling and purple in the morning light.

“We wish you well, _peredhil_ , daughter of _Rochon’baug_ , though I do not suspect you need well-wishers to greet with you,” said Limdur on the steps. “You seem the sort to make your own fate. As does your handsome paramour.”

“ _Guren’glassui,_ ” said Rane, inclining her head. “You saved us and you have my thanks.”

“We are hard folk but we do not leave our kin to die on the sand,” said Limdur, bowing. “Your friends are to the east. Follow the sun and the sounds, and you will find them, it should not be difficult. This island is small and they are loud. They are with another company now, or so my outriders tell me.”

“Dangerous?”

Limdur laughed. “All mortals are dangerous. They are not a people who think, they are a people who act, as you well know, often to their own doom. So approach with caution.” He looked at Arthur. “I am sorry we could do nothing for your weapons, paramour. We are a people of steel, I fear.”

Arthur shrugged, patting his guns. “Ah, hell. There’ll be others.”

Rane sketched that same, curious gesture - fingers, trailing away from her forehead - at Limdur. He reciprocated, smiling in the morning sunlight, his long blond hair wavering in the sea breeze.

“We were well met, Rane Roth. Perhaps our paths will cross another time. I would much desire to see you again, someday. _Tenna enta lúmë, namárië_.”

“ _Namárië_.” Rane bowed, and taking Arthur by the shoulder strode away, their boots casting sand up.

“What’d he say? At the end there?” Arthur asked, looking over his shoulder. The Elves were striding back up the walkway to their city, tall and elegant, cloaks wafting out behind them.

“He said it’s half off breakfast day at Denny’s,” said Rane, and sighed lustily. “Man, I’d kill for a big ass stack of waffles and some sausages right about now. Best hangover food there is.”

Arthur looked uncertainly at her. She laughed, shaking her head.

“He said ‘goodbye until we meet again.’”

“I dunno that I’d like to meet him again, myself.”

“Me neither,” said Rane honestly, hoisting the sack onto her shoulder as they strode through the sand. She glanced toward the sun, which was riding in the sky, halfway to its zenith, and made toward its direction. The surf’s crash was loud and pleasant to their right, the gulls’ cries faint in the morning air. “I trust that guy about as far as I can throw him.”

“Yeah, he don’t exactly inspire it,” Arthur agreed. His guns clanked at his hips, useless though they were, and the morning sun dappled through the palms onto his unshaven face, making him handsome indeed. He coughed roughly. “Seems like a side-steppin’ son of a bitch to me. He was ready to run us through on that beach, then next thing ya know he’s bringin’ us wine and food and lockin’ us in a goddamned tower, sayin’ it’s for our own good.” He shook his head. “Strange people, if ya ask me.”

“Yeah, well.” Rane stepped over a downed tree lithely, her hair swinging. “Don’t judge Elves on that meeting alone. They’re mostly good. I’ve never had occasion to meet with Southern ones, they seem weird. I guess the same way Cajuns seem weird to a New Yorker.”

“Wish I knew what that means.”

“Yeah, me too.” Rane pointed, grasping his arm. “Look.”

Arthur did. There was smoke rising from the palms some ways off. He shaded his eyes with one hand, peering, the calls of tropical birds loud around them.

“You don’t wanna talk anymore about last night,” he said abruptly.

Rane didn’t look at him, only dropped her grasp on his arm. “Eventually, maybe. Think I called you out plenty already. And I need to think about it first.”

" _Think_ about it?" Arthur glanced at her with a touch of alarm. "You still with me?”

“I’m with you,” she said, looking up at him. “This is no halfway thing for me, Arthur, I’m not your prom date. You’re either in it or not.”

"Thank you.” Arthur grasped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead lightly. “For not cuttin' out."

Rane watched him a moment, then pulled away. “I still think you’re an asshole.”

“Well, you ain’t the only one,” said Arthur, watching her as she moved back to the trail, her face dappled by sunlight and her hair flying around her face in the sea breeze. “Maybe you’re even right. You think that’s them?”

“I’m positive,” said Rane, and pointed again. Arthur squinted but couldn’t see beneath the beating sunlight. “That’s Micah. Taking a piss over the ridge. Nasty fucker.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” But Arthur could _almost_ see. There was indeed a figure on the ledge beyond, barely visible between the palm fronds, leaning over the forest below, swaying slightly. It _could_ be Micah.

“He’s the only one I can’t find it in me to like,” Rane remarked, low. “Javier is a close second, but at least he’s got some moral fiber.”

Arthur looked at her, curious in spite of himself. “Why you say? Because he tried to shoot ya?”

“Because that man is a wild card if I ever saw one. No allegiances except to himself. And all the moral compass of a fucking paperclip.” Rane snorted, grim. “And yeah, also because he tried to shoot me. That generally turns me off of a person.”

“Yeah, well, I sure wish Dutch agreed with ya,” Arthur replied. “He’s a slimy son of a bitch. Damn near got us all killed in Blackwater and more times than I can count later on. Him and Limdur’d probably get along like a house on fire. I dunno what Dutch sees in him.”

“When a snake robs a bird’s nest, the bird doesn’t complain if she meets its eyes,” said Rane. 

Arthur looked at her and laughed, a trifle uneasily.

“I never took you for a poet, Miss Roth.”

“My dad used to say that.” Her voice was grim.

“Limdur said they were with other people.”

“That he did.” Rane elbowed him gently. "Keep a peeled eye, just in case."

DUTCH was the first to appear on the ridge when Arthur and Rane came striding up, tousle-haired and filthy, his eyes on Arthur. He put a hand on the shoulder of the young, dark-complected man at the entrance to their little camp, who had leveled a shotgun towards them warily.

“No, no, no, hang on, now, they’re our friends. Oh, Arthur, you son of a _bitch_.”

There were times when Rane wasn’t so sure about Dutch, but this wasn’t one of them. He ran down the cliff, skidding on the sand, and when he reached Arthur he embraced him without hesitation, his grasp tight, breathing hard. Arthur laughed at this gesture, slapping him on the back genially, clearly surprised.

“Oh, Arthur. Oh, my boy.” He leaned back, taking Arthur by the shoulders. “We thought you was dead, son. We surely did.”

“Not yet,” said Arthur, grasping Dutch’s shoulder and grinning. “Takes more than a shipwreck, I guess.”

“Where you two been?” Dutch pulled Rane in too, his grip firm on the small of her back. “We done been locked up and chain-ganged and marched off and escaped and Lord God only knows what else. God _damn_ , you two are sunburned, look like a couple of damn lobsters . . .”

“We met with some Elves,” said Rane, and handed him the sack on her shoulder. “Here. They left us with some provisions.”

“Elves?” Dutch took it, peering inside. “Hell, we was all sure you two were at the bottom of the sea.”

“Who else made it, Dutch?” said Arthur.

“Everybody. Lucky.” Dutch shook his head, putting a hand on his hip. “Hell, lucky ain’t even the word. Javier was arrested, though, and we’re likely gonna have to bust him out before it’s done.”

“Great,” said Arthur, low. “Arrested by who?”

“Ah, nobody important.” Dutch waved a hand. “Bunch of damn local yokels wearin’ the colors, is all.”

“Close by?”

“Close enough. I dunno how we managed it without nobody dying, Arthur, truly I don’t."

"Well, it woulda been nice if you'da waited for us to get into the damn _lifeboat_ with ya, Dutch -"

"Ah, yeah, and I am sorry, son, I truly am. It all happened so doggone fast." Dutch shook his head, eyeing them. "What the hell are you two wearin’ anyway?”

Arthur pulled at the Elven tunic he wore, smirking. “Yeah, I know, it ain’t exactly much to my likin’ neither.”

“The hell?” a voice said above them. Rane and Arthur turned. Bill stood there, shaking his head. “You’re _alive_ , Morgan?”

“Just about.”

“Well, come on up, the both of ya.” Dutch was starting back up the hill. “We’ll bust into this food with our new friends. Damn, but ain’t I happy to see you two. Little bit of good news in this shitshow, damned if it ain’t.”

  
  


THEIR new friends turned out to be rebels, armed to the teeth, all of them filthy and surly. Their leader introduced himself as Hercule Fontaine. Rane didn’t put him over thirty, and had to respect him at once. She was irritable, though, torn over the conversation the evening before, and she drank deep on the Elven wine. She could not have been less poised to entertain. What she wanted was to be alone, to absorb this news about Arthur and think on it. Her posture, cross-legged and staring into the fire with her long hair in her face, spoke to it.

“You know about the Elves in the woods,” she asked Hercule at length as they all sat around the bonfire. She was drunk on wine by now, still ruminating on Arthur’s revelation, sitting cross-legged on the sand and picking at a chunk of _lembas_ noncommittally. It was leaning toward late afternoon, the wind sharp and the sun orange overhead. The cries of insects and birds were loud and pleasant. Dutch, Bill and Micah sat against the trunks of trees nearby, all of them looking tired and bored. Arthur had taken his usual seat next to her, his hip touching hers, smoking a cigarette with clear relish and touching her back gently every now and then. He looked at her now, his gaze warning.

“You’ve seen them. In the woods. Haven’t you?” She jerked her goblet toward Hercule. "You know they're there, I mean?"

“Hey.” Arthur grasped her hand in one of his own, tight. “Take it easy. You been drinkin’.”

Rane ignored him. Hercule met her eyes, dark over the fire. “We know about their city, but they are known as the Eldarin here in Guarma.”

"And h- _hic_ -how do _you_ feel about them?" Rane asked him, fixing him with an intensely fascinated look, as if she would like nothing more than to hear what he had to say on this matter.

Hercule looked uncertainly at Dutch, who was eyeing Rane suspiciously over his cigar. "They are strange," he said at length. "Very strange. They speak a tongue we do not understand, their customs are unusual to us."

Rane laughed heartily. “Well, they know about you too, and they don't think too highly of you guys.”

“Is that so?”

Rane tipped a little salute at him, grinning sardonically. "That's so."

"How _do_ they feel towards us, then?" Hercule asked her, watching her closely.

Rane flicked more bread into the fire, her brow furrowed. “The way you think of bugs when you step on them. _That’s_ the way Elves think of men. Like stupid, useless, loud, intrusive little bugs, eating up all the food and turning up everywhere they aren't welcome. One squished, or two, hell a hundred, two hundred -" Rane shrugged. ”No great loss."

A surprised, ringing silence fell at this. Most of Hercule's men were looking at Rane now, too, and none of them looked pleased with this bizarre soliloquy. Dutch spread his arms, laughing heartily.

"My friend here, she's had a little too much, is all. Don't mind her."

“Then we are useless?” said Hercule, ignoring Dutch and glaring at Rane.

“Maybe you are.” Rane’s eyes were flashing and cold.

"We are revolutionaries. Our work matters a great deal to many."

"Or maybe, and hear me out on this one, _maybe_ you're just a bunch of dumb hicks going about your pointless lives on this dumbfuck island, trying to add some semblance of meaning to your existence." Rane flicked a chunk of her _lembas_ into the fire, meeting Hercule's eyes truculently. "You asked me what the Elves thought about you. There you go."

"Rane," Dutch growled, glaring at her. "Girl."

Hercule leaned forward, eyes on Rane's. "Fortunately for me, we do not care much for the opinions of prudish blonde men who hide in forests." He watched her a moment, then added, "you are one of them, I assume, from the look of you. Do you feel the same way towards us?"

Rane said nothing, only continued to tear pieces of bread off and huck them into the flames, meeting his gaze insolently. Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably, breaking the tense silence that had fallen around them.

"I apologize, Hercule, she ain't usually like this, she don't mean nothin' by it."

Hercule continued to watch Rane. After a moment, he laughed, casting a sunny grin around the bonfire's patrons.

"Everyone speaks too quickly with wine in their bellies, do they not?"

"They surely do!" Dutch agreed, kindling to this at once. "They most _surely_ do!"

"Don't take it personally, Hercule," said Micah, and lifted a glass. "She's nasty to everybody even when she's sober."

Rane pulled off a piece of her _lembas_ and threw it at Micah, hard. He ducked, snickering.

"See what I mean?"

"It is a pity," Hercule said, settling back down beside the fire. "Perhaps you could help our cause, were your feelings toward us not so poor."

“Yeah, it's a pity,” said Rane, low, looking into the fire. They all looked at her in surprise. Dutch leaned forward, looking thoroughly impatient.

“We’re gonna help ya, Hercule,” he said, eyeing Rane warningly. “However we can. _All_ of us,” he added pointedly.

“Rane.” Arthur elbowed her gently. “Knock it off, the hell you doin'?”

“What are you guys fighting against?” Rane asked airily. She was tired and irritable, and this man’s revolution didn’t interest her, especially not with Arthur’s terminal illness hanging in her mind from the night before. The opportunity to rile somebody up was attractive, like turning a valve and releasing a little steam. “Lemme guess, some despot who won’t let your people have any independence. Tale as old as time.”

“For the freedom of my friends from Fussar.” Hercule was watching her with clear dislike. “You aren’t like the other Eldarin I’ve spoken to.”

“I’m not, no.” Rane took the rest of her _lembas_ and flung it away into the fire with a careless flourish. “Sorry to disappoint.”

"You care nothing for revolution, because you have never had cause to fight for your life," said Hercule shortly. "I have met many like you."

"I've had _plenty_ cause to fight for my life in my days," Rane replied, staring off into the night with disinterest, her goblet hanging below her lips. "But no, you're right, I care nothing for revolution at this very moment. Think I care more about eating dry dogshit then revolution, if we're being honest -"

"Alright." Dutch shoved at her shoulder, hard, causing some of her wine to spill to the dirt. "Girl, you keep it up and see what happens, I'm just about through with you tonight."

“Why you sayin’ shit like that?” Arthur said, low, grasping her arm. “Huh?”

"What, you thought I'd just forget about what you told me last night?" Rane hissed, matching his tone.

Arthur glanced around, shifting. Micah, Bill and Dutch were all eyeing them.

“This ain’t exactly the best time.”

Rane lifted her goblet, heavy with Elvish wine, and threw it all back, rivulets of it running down her chin.

“To Fussar’s fall,” she said, lavish. She was drunk, and Arthur watched her from her side with a heavy heart. Dutch, too, was eyeing her. “To the best of all possible worlds. To the downtrodden and the oppressed and the destitute. May your dicks always be harder than your lives. To whiskey glasses and fat girls' asses.”

Bill and Micah both burst out laughing at this, slapping their thighs. Hercule wasn't laughing. Neither were Dutch or Arthur.

“Get a hold of her, Arthur.” Dutch was glaring at him. “Or I'm gonna.”

“Who is this woman?” Hercule asked, looking at Dutch.

“An associate of mine,” said Dutch.

"I cannot say I care much for her. She is slovenly."

Rane pulled her wand and aimed it at Hercule's feet, hellishly quick even drunk. A spangle of sparks leapt out of the dirt, and Hercule jumped up, his eyes wide. His gun was in his hand in a moment, and Rane, clearly only waiting for a reason to draw, got to her feet in a whirl of dark hair, the goblet dropping from her grasp with a clank, pulling her sword. The men behind Hercule drew too, the snicking of their hammers loud in the silence, and Dutch rose hastily, hands stretching out in both directions.

"Boys, _boys_ , now just _hold_ on -!"

“Try it. I’d welcome it, I’d welcome the distraction.” Rane's eyes were on Hercule, cold beneath her brows. She spun the blade around her wrist once, ignoring the way the rebels around her jolted at the sudden motion. "Indulge me."

“You’d like that?” said Hercule lightly, peering at her down his revolver.

"Very much."

"We outnumber you twenty to one, little girl."

Rane jerked her head. "How quick are you with that thing? I bet you're not quicker than m -"

“RANE!" Dutch roared, loud. Rane started, glancing at him. "That's enough, I said! I ain't gonna say it again! You're drunk as a damn lord and antagonizin' these gentlemen who were good enough to give us shelter, now shut your goddamned _mouth_! What the hell is the _matter_ with you?"

Rane gaped at him, taken aback by the rage in his voice. Dutch threw a hand toward the woods beyond camp, his face furious.

"Take a _walk_ , girl! Go on! Cool off!"

Rane eyed him, and Arthur saw the tears standing in her eyes, bright in the firelight. She turned on her heel and strode into the forest, her footsteps crunching in the dirt. They all watched her go, her hair flying in the wind.

  
  



	27. The Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-due conversation

_I have, too, been playing with fifty-two cards_   
_Just 'cause I play so far from my vest_   
_Whatever I've got, I've got no reason to guard_   
_What could I do but spend my best?_   
_O' sailor, why'd you do it?_   
_What'd you do that for?_   
_Saying there's nothing to it_   
_And then letting it go by the boards._

**\- Fiona Apple**

_______________

Dutch jerked his head after Rane, pulling Arthur to one side. Hercule and his men were slowly sitting back down, their eyes following her, holstering their guns. She could be seen faintly in the setting sunlight, walking quickly, arms swinging and hair flying in the breeze, sand flung up at her heels.

“Arthur, I can’t have her actin’ that way around these boys, otherwise we ain’t never gonna get back home.”

"Well, what are ya tellin' me for?"

Dutch linked his fingers in his belt and laughed, shaking his head. “Arthur, for somebody so smart, you sure are fuckin’ stupid.”

Arthur gave Dutch a wounded look. “Well, hell, that ain’t very nice. You tryin’ to hurt my feelings or somethin’?”

“When have I ever been nice?”

“Fair enough.”

“What the hell is goin’ on with her? Your girl? She’s pissin’ off our friends and I can’t have that. I know she's mouthy at the best of times, but shit.”

Arthur looked at Dutch in the low light and considered just telling him everything right then, consequences be damned. There was a time when he was a younger man that Dutch would have already intuited it, truth be told, but that was a lot of years behind them and Dutch was . . . what was the word Rane had used? Compromised. Though how or why, Arthur didn’t know. He felt it in the heart of him, hateful as it was. If he told Dutch he was dying, and that was the reason why Rane was blowing up at strangers, there was liable to be worse trouble. He’d find no concession or consort in this man anymore. Not now, maybe not ever again. It was painful to consider. He’d never had a closer friend, and whatever fundamental thing that had changed felt permanent and unyielding.

Instead, Arthur said, “She ain’t my girl, Dutch, I don’t think she’s anybody’s girl. Hell, I don’t even think she’s _her_ girl sometimes. She’d kick her own ass if she could half the damn time.”

Dutch laughed. “Oh, she’s yours alright, and I think you know it. That’s a rare thing, my friend. ‘Specially for a girl that beautiful and a son of a bitch ugly as you.”

“There you go tryin’ to hurt my feelings again.”

“Oh hell.” Dutch laughed. “I never thought I’d live to see the day somebody laid you low worse than Mary did, but here we are.”

“Who ever said I was laid low by anybody? I ain't _laid low_ , Dutch, good Christ.”

“You’re good with them irons on your hip but when it comes to lyin’, you’re bombed out worse than any man I ever saw.”

Arthur laughed in spite of himself, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. She don’t think of me that way. You got it wrong. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Dutch cast him a long-suffering look. “Okay, fine. Pretend I’m a goddamned idiot if you wanna. What I wanna know right now is why she’s actin’ this way.”

Arthur shrugged, conceding. “She got some bad news last night. I think she’s takin’ it kinda hard.”

“What kind?”

Arthur looked at Dutch a long time, his blue eyes flicking between Dutch’s brown ones, mouth pursed.

“I dunno,” he said at last. “I don’t pretend to understand those people, they’re strange. Maybe somethin’ one of ‘em said.”

Dutch nodded, clutching his belt. He accepted it from the first, unquestioning, and Arthur, the world's shittiest liar by a landslide, had a moment to reflect on it with a sinking heart. Dutch wasn’t as sharp as he was once. Hell, may as well say it right out, the man was dull as rusted iron. Whatever had happened to him, it was bone deep.

“Alright, well go make it right with her. And I’ll go make it right with them.” Dutch gestured vaguely, looking put out. “Make up some excuse, I guess.”

“Who are those boys anyways, Dutch?”

“They’re rebels workin’ against some man or other, and we need ‘em to get off this piece of shit island,” said Dutch shortly, shaking his head. He dropped his voice. “I won’t pretend I favor their cause, because between you and me I could give a shit less, same as your girl, but until we get away from here we're gonna have to play nice and make our manners. You understand?”

Arthur nodded. “‘Course.”

“And that means she’s gonna have to play nice, too. Drunk or sober, she can’t be sayin’ shit like that. We’ll be run off. Then we’ll be stuck, and I can’t have that. ‘Specially with Javier and John locked up. Without these boys, they’ll both swing.”

“I know it.”

“Go and fix it. She’ll listen to you better than she’ll listen to any of us, son. Much as you hate to admit it.”

Arthur cast Dutch a grim smirk. “So you say.” He hitched his belt up. “I’ll talk her down. Go make it right with your friends.”

Dutch spread his arms, stepping backward and smiling, looking handsome and amused in the low light. “What else do I do better?”

RANE strode through the forest and to the beach, her thighs brushing past the seagrass, and reached the surf. Her gait was unsteady but she made it to the shore, yanking her boots off as she went and tossing them aside, rolling her trousers up her ankles roughly, stumbling, sand flying up at her heels. She walked to the water, looking out over the sea, drunk and wavering, tears falling from her face, her mouth pursed. The world seemed strange before her eyes, and now that she was a day away from Arthur's news, the grief in the center of her chest was making itself well known, given body and strength with the fullness of time. She’d shouted at a stranger for it, tried to fight him, but he meant nothing to her, truly. The knowledge of what Arthur had said to her last night had overtaken the world, and nothing else seemed terribly important. Not Hercule and his little revolution, not Dutch and his bunch of piss-poor outlaws, not Javier and John sitting in prison someplace bound for the gallows, not even being stuck on this shitty island. It all paled in comparison. Arthur Morgan, though . . . he mattered very much. The memory of Sirius, and mourning him, had become more real than it had in years, growing sharp teeth to remind her how she’d bled, to murmur into her ear that very soon now she would feel those teeth on her heart once again.

_He’s dying_. The words rang in her mind as relentless as a church bell. _He’s dying. He’ll die the same way Sirius did. You picked a losing side, just like always. You picked the horse at the back of the race. How come you always seem to do that, huh? You’ve got the opposite of the Midas touch, girl. Everything you touch turns to shit instead of gold, especially the men you fall in love with._

Rane scoffed quietly, shaking her head. “I didn’t pick this. If I’d picked, I’d be alone.”

The voice of her father made its way into her mind, as it always seemed to. Gods, but he was nothing if not noisy and bothersome, especially while she was drinking.

_You don’t get to choose who you love. You just love ‘em. If we could choose, I’d never have loved your mom and been exiled. You wouldn’t even be here._

Rane, her voice low and lilting and very drunk: “Shut up, dad.”

Wade didn’t, true to form. _He’s mortal and he’ll die, same as any of them. Same as Sirius. That’s what mortals do. They die. That’s kind of part of the mortal bit. He’s been sick a while. You saw it in his eyes, even if he denied it. Maybe weeks, maybe months. These people are about as dumb as when they were thrust into this world from between their mothers’ legs when it comes to this type of shit. Think back to your old life and remember what they said about it, about that disease he says he has._

“No.” Rane’s voice was low, the surf moving around her feet and her hazel eyes on the horizon over the sea. “I can’t think about that.”

_Sure you can. You can’t_ quit _thinking about it any more than the tides can quit coming in. I know nothing if I don’t know you, girl, surely not. You’re my own very kin, blood of my blood._

Rane’s hand passed over her face, feeling the tears dampening her cheeks and hating them, the evening sun setting casting its fiery light over her face, making her beautiful in an almost surreal way, her eyes flitting over the horizon beneath her dark brows.

_Tuburculosis. That ain't the kind of disease you get better from_. Wade Roth’s voice was as cool and unforgiving as ever in her head, without sympathy, bearing only facts. _I suppose he knows it as well as you do, too, and that’s why he hid it away from you, for fear of spooking you off. Arthur got stuck with a tough hand, and he’s gonna play it close to the vest, because that’s the kinda man he is. You got vaccinated, because in your time people know better. But not now, in whatever time this is. You get to suffer in other ways, though, don’t ya?_

Rane coughed out a sob, grasping her throat with both hands, her brows knitted over her eyes and her mouth turned down, the surf moving around her ankles, the red sun on her face. The horror of this truth was almost too much, not least of all beneath the weight of wine.

_Your fate won’t be as quick. Not as merciful. Matter of fact let’s be honest, sometimes you think you weren’t brought back here as an act of grace, do ya? You think it was an act of retribution. You think you’re being punished, the way the sinners in hell are punished, slow and steady and easy does it. You think this is your hell. That this is what immortality_ really _means for the likes of you. No rest, and never being allowed to stay with the ones you love. You weren't born to die, but the ones around you were, and die they will, each and every one of them._

Rane shook her head, a sob racking from her chest. She had never been a crying woman, but it seemed that drink and grief had drawn it from her more these past few days than in the last twenty years of her life.

“There is no hell,” she murmured.

_My girl, my only girl. I wish you didn’t have to suffer. That’s the truth. Don’t I love ya._

In that moment, echo in her mind or not, Wade Roth was so close that Rane could have reached out and touched him, and even drunk she would have killed to feel his comforting arms around her. She missed him, suddenly and fiercely, and she shut her eyes against this new heartache, the sea breeze cool on her forehead, her brow knitted, tears still spilling from her eyes into the ocean at her ankles, washing away with the careless tides. The gulls were loud overhead, the cicadas louder still in the forest behind.

“I can’t let this happen to me again,” she whispered.

_It’s happening with or without your permission._

“FUCK!” Rane screamed, and kicked at the sand, stumbling. “FUCK! _FUCK_!”

_We don’t get to pick. It just is._

Rane stood on the shore, breathing hard. After a moment she drew her sword, tossed it onto the damp sand, and strode into the water, wading, her long hair tossed back by the breeze, staggering a little against the waves. When she was waist-deep she dove, heedless of her clothes, letting the saltwater wash over her face, relishing the thick silence beneath the water for a moment. It was good, cool, moving over her sinuously. She wished she could be naked without risking Dutch’s rebels seeing her so. The sound of the tide was lovely, the red light of the fading dusk more so.

“HEY!”

Rane emerged from the sea, gasping, her eyes moving over the shore. Arthur was running down the sand, shedding his gun belt hastily, his eyes wide.

“YOU OKAY? YOU DROWNIN’?”

Rane laughed, a little bitterly, and began to wade back to shore. The drowning man, asking her if she was drowning. Positively burlesque. “I’m fine."

“Goddamned fool, scared the hell outta me,” Arthur muttered, glaring at her, his breath coming quick in his chest. Rane was striding out of the sea, watching him, her clothes stuck to her lean torso and her hair plastered to her face. “What the hell you _doin’_? You on drugs or dogfood, girl? Coulda been a riptide or somethin', you all alone -”

“I wanted to swim.”

“You’re too goddamned drunk to be swimming in the fuckin' ocean, Rane, least of all at low tide.” Arthur took her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “You’ll drown if you ain’t careful. We gotta sit down and -”

Rane leaned up and kissed him hard, her tongue flitting into his mouth, taking his hand and placing it over her breast. Arthur melted a little at it despite himself, as much from surprise as from lust. Her flesh was firm and warm beneath her damp tunic, and the sensation of it undid him a little. The saltwater on her mouth was strangely fetching. She yanked at his belt roughly, drawing him to her, her lips rough and demanding on his, looking impossibly beautiful beneath the setting sun. He put his fingers into her damp hair as he kissed her back, feeling the water squeezing out between his fingers, pattering onto the sand, and struggled not to take her then and there, breathing hard. He could feel himself swelling in his jeans, helpless. She took his spare hand and guided it down her jeans, pressing against her, wet and warm, and he gasped, drawing back with a terrific effort. He caught himself, but it was difficult.

“Rane, quit it.” He pressed her back, panting a little. “Quit it, you’re drunk and we gotta talk.”

“You want me, though.” Rane slipped a hand beneath his shirt, looking up at him, swaying, smiling and drunk and gorgeous, her eyes bright beneath her brows and her breath quick in her throat. Arthur could not remember ever wanting a woman more than he did right now, she was right. “I know you do, your heart’s pounding faster than a fucking freight train, Arthur, I can feel it.”

“Yeah, of course my heart’s pounding, you’re a beautiful girl and you’re soakin’ wet and tryin’ to put my hands all over ya,” Arthur conceded, shaking his head. “But we gotta talk.”

Rane leaned up, trying to kiss him again, but Arthur pushed her back firmly. She stumbled in the sand, her gaze becoming cold, then bent and retrieved her sword, sheathing it with a clang.

"You come down here to jump my ass about yelling at your friends back there?" she asked roughly, dusting her boots off and pulling them on, stumbling. "Because if that's it, get it over with, I'm not too big on company just this second."

"You can't be talkin' to them that way, Rane, we need 'em if we wanna get outta here," said Arthur, and shifted his weight to his other foot, putting both hands on his hips and looking at her with faint astonishment. It was slowly starting to sink in for him, what she'd just done. "Why'd you do that, huh? Come outta the water and jump all over me that way? I know you been drinkin' but you ain't like that."

Rane pulled the second boot on, staggering, then turned to face him. "I dunno why I did it. Maybe I wanted to feel something besides existential dread for a few minutes."

Arthur laughed, shaking his head, staring off toward the sea. "You ain't even the one sick and I been tryin' to make you feel better about it damn near more than myself, Rane."

"Yeah, because I'm the one stuck here after you're gone."

"Oh, hell." Arthur looked at her, suddenly angry, the sunset reflecting in his eyes. He aimed a finger at her. "You know, what I shoulda done is cut you loose, and it ain't too late for that."

Rane snorted, her hair flying around her face, but her expression was a trifle uneasy. "Your solution is to run away from me?"

"That's what you want, ain't it? To be free of it? I guess I don't get the choice no more, but _you_ do. Hell, I'll send ya away if you want me to, I'll put you outta my head. I done it before with other women and I'm sure I ain't lost the touch."

Rane looked at him from beneath her brows, swaying slightly.

"You're just gonna _set me free_ , huh? Like a little canary from a cage? That's your pay dirt? That's your master fucking plan?"

"Maybe so."

"And what will I do then, Arthur? Go flitting through the daisies happy as a fucking clam? Just forget all about you and your stupid fucking diseases and maladies and live happily ever after? Is that how you think it'd go?" She gesticulated, her motions sloppy and furious, her damp hair shining. "Sirius has been dead for I don't even _know_ how long and there are _still_ nights when I cry for him."

Arthur scoffed at this, shaking his head. "Well I'm very fuckin' sorry for your loss, Rane."

"Oh, shut up. You know what I'm trying to say." Rane watched him, wilting a little. He was handsome in the setting sunlight, even angry. "Arthur, my people . . . well, my dad's people . . . we don't take this kind of thing very well. You can't expect me to just brush it off. It's . . . This is a zero-sum game for me."

"I don't know that."

"Means I'm gonna lose either way," said Rane, and sighed. "Look at me."

He did. She stepped closer to him, looking up into his face.

"Don't let me go. I'd rather ride to hell with you if we have to go. And I'll try to shut the fuck up about it. And not yell at strange dudes with guns," she added sheepishly.

Arthur's shoulders sank a little. He bent and kissed her forehead gently, placing both hands on her face, then met her mouth with his.

"You're all wet, you goddamned drunk idiot," he muttered, and kissed her again. "Let's go get you into some dry clothes. God, I love ya. I wish I knew how it happened so quick."

"Well, wish in one hand and shit in the other, see which one fills up first." Rane kissed the corner of his mouth. "You were really gonna cut out on me, huh?"

Arthur shrugged as they started back up the beach, Rane staggering slightly. "Hell, I can't hardly go five minutes without thinkin' of ya now, let alone the rest of my life, but if it'd spare you some pain, I would, sure." He laughed, low. "I'd never get past it, though, I don't believe."

"That's two of us," Rane murmured.

As they strode toward camp, Rane linked her fingers through Arthur's, and he returned her grip, tight.


	28. A New Endeavor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch takes Arthur and Rane on an expedition

_And the truth is you can't hide from the truth_   
_And the truth hurts, because the truth is all there is_   
_I realized some time ago that I would have to let you go_   
_May not be true to see that you would return one day_   
_But in your present state you may as well not be here at all_   
_You wear a thin disguise, it's from yourself you hide_   
_Just take a look at us, we are heading for a fall._

**\- Handsome Boy Modeling School**

________________

Hercule allowed Rane to stay with them in their camp (Dutch made a rather compelling argument on her behalf, though she was on the beach at the time and didn’t hear), but it could not have been clearer that he’d have happily seen the back of her. His gaze met hers frequently, unfriendly and suspicious, and his men kept their hands on their guns and their eyes on her sword when she moved through their settlement. They shared their board and bottle with her, however, and Rane kept her mouth shut and her gaze turned demurely down. Dutch had warned her when she and Arthur had come striding back from the seaside, brushing past Arthur and grasping her arm roughly. Arthur had looked at him, worried by the livid expression on his face.

_Dutch, not now, let her alone_ , he’d said, but Dutch had ignored him.

_I’ll make this quick and I’ll make it clear_ , Dutch had said, low, meeting Rane’s eyes with his, close enough for his tobacco-tinted breath to blow the stray strands of her damp hair from her forehead. He had snatched her upper arm in his fist. _You defied me a couple times now, Rane, first in that bank. I ain’t the type to entertain that sort of nonsense, and folks have died for less._

_Dutch._ Arthur’s voice had been harsh. Still he was ignored.

_Now you listenin’ to me or ain’t ya? Because what I’m about to say to ya, Rane, I ain’t gonna say twice. This is the last warnin’ you’re gonna get, so help me God._

He had jerked Rane roughly, her hair flying. She met his eyes, silent, her hair still damp and clinging to her cheeks, and nodded.

_From now on you mind what I say. If I say to get out of a damn bullet-riddled doorway you’ll do it. If I say to keep your goddamned mouth shut while we’re breakin’ bread with strangers, you’ll do it. Hell, if I tell ya to dance the fuckin’ two-step butt-ass naked around the fire then by God you’ll do that, too. I ain’t Arthur or John, I ain’t belly-up stupid around ya, I’m the one that gives the orders ‘round here, and if you ride with us you’re gonna listen to me._

Rane looked up at him from beneath her brows, breathing quickly through her nose, her eyes still slightly bloodshot from the tears and wine that came before. Arthur noted with a touch of dread that her hand was resting on the hilt of her sword.

_Alright, now, that’s enough, Dutch, she heard ya, she’s just been drinkin’ is all -_

_Now we got us an understanding?_ said Dutch, quite unafraid, still ignoring Arthur, and jerked her again. His grip was vicelike on her arm. _Or do I need to go over it one more time?_

_Rane_ , said Arthur warningly. His eyes were on her hand. _Rane, you just listen to him and be calm, now._

Rane had dropped her arm, nodding. _Yes. I’m sorry._

Dutch had released her roughly, shifting his weight. _I had to just about beg on bended knee for them boys back there to let ya stay after that shit you pulled, and I ain’t a beggin’ man. Good thing you’re pretty, is all I gotta say, otherwise they’d have kicked your ass out._ He had leaned back, brushing his palm on his shirt. _Why the hell are you all wet, anyway?_

_Tripped and fell into the ocean,_ Arthur had said, watching Dutch. _That’s what happens when you put back half a goddamned flagon of wine, you fall and you start fights for no good reason and you run your mouth. Ain’t it, Rane?_

Rane nodded, silent.

_Well, they got clothes. Go get dried off. And don’t start no more shit._

_I won’t._

_I mean it, girl, you act like a lady for a change or we’re gonna die on this bullshit island, and Javier and John’ll both hang. I know you don’t wanna see a rope around_ his _pretty neck, you’d be pinin’ over him for years._

Rane scoffed, shaking her head, her face reddening. Arthur grasped Dutch’s arm roughly.

_Dutch, quit it, now, she heard ya the first damn time -_

Dutch had shaken him off and shoved at Rane’s shoulder roughly.

_Don’t you roll your eyes at me, girl, I got about no patience for you left in me tonight. I mean what I say._

_Fine._

This said, he turned on his heel and strode away, sand flying up beneath his boots. They had clothes indeed, and a tent, and Rane had happily exchanged them for her wet ones. Elven clothing had never been much to her liking anyway.

The morning after, Dutch woke Rane and Arthur early. They’d fallen asleep awkwardly in the tent they’d been afforded (not even Micah had commented when they’d vanished into it together; they all knew well enough by then). When he flung open the flap and looked in, he had to take a moment to be wryly amused by the state of them. Rane was propped up against the back, her long legs strung before her, head resting against her shoulder, hair in her face. Arthur was lying with his head on her lap, one hand folded beneath his head and the other strung through Rane’s, curled into a comma like a young boy, mouth open and snoring lightly. Dutch rapped on the tent smartly and both started awake, staring at Dutch in bleary surprise.

“Come on, you two, we gotta go grease the tracks,” he said, smirking at them.

“Christ, Dutch, how ‘bout a little damned courtesy here.”

“Well, I ain’t never been much for it, I guess. Get on up and get your boots on, you two can cosset and kiss and make eyes later on.”

“What, you don’t like it or something?” said Rane, and leaning over Arthur kissed him, her hair hanging over his face. He pushed her off, face red, getting to his feet as she laughed.

“Quit it, hell.”

“You two are nauseating, truly ya are,” said Dutch, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. Rane eyed him thoughtfully as she pulled on her boots, her smile fading. He seemed in a better mood today. Hell, he seemed like a different person, almost. He might not have been breathing down her neck ten hours ago. The change was a little strange. “If you ate sugar you’d both shit out cotton candy, that’s what I think. Just sickening.”

“What is it?” Arthur asked, stretching richly with both hands over his head. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Shit, what ain’t?” Dutch leaned against the tent, folding his arms, shaking his head. “Stuck on this God-forsaken hunk of shit, half my boys in jail, most of our cash at the bottom the goddamned ocean. Nah, we’re gonna go have a look and see how bad it is with Javier today. Hercule’s boys put eyes on him last night.”

“He’s good? Alive?”

Dutch laughed. “Alive, yeah. Good, eh, I dunno about all that. Bet if we asked him right now he’d have a few other words for it besides that one.”

“Where is he?” Rane asked.

“Some little establishment on the other side of the island called Aguasdulces,” said Dutch, striding out of the tent and rolling up his sleeves, peering around in the early morning sunshine, his brows knitted. “There’s some woman who’s gonna lead us through the jungle, but we gotta pay, and I only got the one chunk of gold left, so we gotta make it count, and I want you two with me.”

“I could make her do it,” said Rane, low.

“How?” said Arthur, giving her a high-browed look. “Spin that steel around? Make a lightshow?”

“There’s a spell.” Rane shrugged, conceding. “A curse, I guess, technically. Illegal. But I guess I’m as crooked as you guys now with law on my heels, so I may as well lean into it.”

Dutch looked at her, massaging his chin, his eyes assessing.

“I believe that you could,” said Dutch, inclining his head. “Tell you what else I believe, we’re gonna make a killer outta you yet.”

Rane laughed. “I was a killer long before you happened on me.”

Dutch laughed, delighted, grasping her shoulder. “A woman after my own heart. Come on, let’s go.”

  
  


THE path to the cave where Dutch was going was treacherous. It was a cliff, sometimes barely broad enough for the lay of their feet, the air screaming under them. The river beneath was harsh and crashing, the rush of the breeze hard and swift. Dutch led them, Arthur and Rane behind, and Rane stared over the edge of the ledge, her eyes frightened beneath her brows. It was far below, that river. Here, as they made their way up, Arthur discovered a curious thing.

"Holy shit." He was looking left at her from ahead, a wry grin playing about his mouth. "I believe that girl right there is afraid of heights, Dutch."

"Well, good to know she's scared of _somethin_ '," Dutch replied, smirking. "That why you're so damn quiet back there, honey?"

Rane didn't reply, only continued to stare over the ledge, arms plastered against the damp rock wall, hair flying and eyes wide.

"Look, now it ain't so far down," said Arthur. He kicked a rock and it fell down toward the river, seemingly forever, before crashing into the water, its splash barely perceptible from up here. "Hell, I reckon you might could survive a fall like that, even. Wouldn't look so good once ya got to the bottom, of course -"

"You know, I knew a man once fell from a high place like this," said Dutch gravely from up ahead. "Name of Phillip Heather. You remember Phil, Arthur? Old sharpshooter from up North? Liked to chew on toothpicks all the damn time, God knows why?"

"Ah, yeah. Ol' Phil. Shame, what happened to him." He gestured at Rane. "You wanna know what happened to Ol' Phil? Tell 'er, Dutch. It's a sad story, ain't it?"

Rane didn't answer, only crept behind him on the ledge, her eyes far below and her breath quick in her throat.

Dutch nodded. "Yep, sure is. Well, the way I was told it, one day old Phil Heather had a few too many and then he took the quick way off a river ridge, sorta like this one, wasn't it?"

"Sure was. Damn near identical, if you ask me," said Arthur gravely. "Shit, might even be the same place."

"Might could be, yep. His feet just sorta . . . skated right off the rock wall. Too much silt and whatnot, maybe." Dutch ran the sole of his boot over the rock floor as if to demonstrate, kicking up dust. "And _hoo-wee_ , lemme tell ya. Broke every goddamned bone in his body on the way. I'm talkin' legs, arms, ribs . . . shit, he looked like a jellyfish by the time they found him, blood all over the damn place and all his limbs facin' the wrong way -"

"Will you guys both shut the fuck up, please?" Rane snapped, her face pale. Both Dutch and Arthur burst out laughing, their voices echoing against the rock.

"Ah hell, we was only playin'," said Dutch, his boots grinding against the rock, still chuckling.

"Pretty funny, you two dudes, couple of goddamned comedians," Rane remarked, low. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest she was shocked neither of them could hear it. Christ, they were high up. "How much further is it?"

"Not much, I don't think," said Dutch. "Keep your britches on. Think I see the end up ahead."

Rane peered ahead, barely daring to lean her head away from the tangled vines of the rock wall. There was indeed an opening up ahead, perhaps some thirty feet away, and she sighed roughly with unfiltered relief. The sooner she could break away from this decidedly unlovely view, the better.

"So what are we gonna do once we get Javier out?" Arthur asked.

"Ah, well. I expect we'll need to hire us a boat."

"With what damn money?"

"We'll figure that part out once we're there," Dutch replied, a trifle coolly. "Anyways, we go back to Saint Denis, collect the rest of our family and figure out about John."

"Figure out about him? What d'you mean by that?"

"Just that, Arthur. We figure out about him. Then we take the rest of 'em and leave. And we gotta be quick about it. Ain't long before somebody's gonna recognize one of us and send word to the US."

"You wanna go back to Saint Denis." Arthur shook his head, coughing roughly into a curled fist. "An insect bite you or somethin'? 'Cuz you gone, friend."

"Well, we look like what we are," said Dutch. "Bunch of desperados on the run. But with the women, a change of clothes . . . we could be pilgrims or a choir or some damn thing -"

"Whatever you say."

They'd reached the mouth of the cave at last, and Rane could have collapsed at its mouth, her breathing harsh and sweat standing at her hairline. Arthur's voice was rough and irritable at her side.

"We're a bunch of penniless fugitives on some Caribbean dump, sneakin' through caves, while two of our best men got shot down," he said, and the look he gave Dutch was decidedly cold. "How could I doubt ya, Dutch?"

Rane watched them from where she'd pressed herself against the stone wall of the cave, a little wary. Dutch met Arthur's gaze, his own equally cold.

"You got no idea, Arthur. None at all. I will do whatever it takes for us to survive."

"I guess that's what I'm afraid of," Arthur muttered, brushing by him. "Dark as hell in here. Where's this lady you was talkin' about?"

" _Lumos_."

The cave lit up beneath her wandlight, falling into sharp resolution.

"Thank you, my girl," said Dutch, stepping past her and raising his voice. "Gloria! GLORIA!"

Footsteps drew near, and a woman appeared in the gloom, clutching a torch. Rane extinguished her wand, stuffing it into her jeans, watching her approach. She was old, hunched, her eyes rheumy and dark and her mouth tucked. She was glaring at Dutch.

" _Buenos noches_ ," said Dutch, inclining his head.

" _Buenos noches_ ," the woman replied, hobbling toward them. " _Dinero_. The money."

"Yeah, yeah. The gold." Dutch reached into his pocket and produced a bar of it from their bank escapade, handing it over. " _Aqui_."

The woman snatched it from him, inspecting it critically. Dutch laughed.

"Oh it's genuine, ya old hag."

The woman looked up at him, then tucked the gold bar away, motioning to them and starting away. " _Vamos. Rapido_."

Arthur and Rane exchanged a glance, then followed after Dutch's loping gait into the cave.

IT wasn't a long walk. Eventually they reached a steel cage door, warped with age. By now Arthur was coughing steadily and harshly, and Rane eyed him, frowning.

"You need to pull over?"

Arthur scoffed. "No, I don't need to pull over, Rane."

"Okay. Sorry." Rane lifted her hands. "Just asking."

"Well, quit." Arthur nodded toward the door. "This it? The end of it? I ain't so sure I like it in here no more."

"You must lift it," said the old woman, pointing to the steel gate. "It is stuck, you have to lift it."

"Alright, Christ, we heard ya the first time," Dutch muttered, stepping forward. "Pardon me, my queen. Arthur, gimme a hand with this."

"Okay, then."

Together they grasped the steel door and pulled up, muscles straining in their forearms, and it gave way with a rusty creak, swinging wide. The old woman rushed ahead of them, the torch held aloft in her hand, muttering in Spanish. There was a ladder up ahead, clearly as ancient as the door itself, and she gestured toward it, casting her rheumy gaze back at her three companions. They strode forward, peering upwards towards the light streaming down and blinking.

"This way?" said Dutch.

"Si. Then you pay more."

"Okay. Sure." Dutch sounded almost sarcastic.

"More. Pay more."

"Just a second."

"Pay more. Pay now!"

To Rane's utter dismay, the old woman pulled a knife and jabbed it toward Dutch. Before either she or Arthur could do any more than gape at this, however, Dutch had taken the woman by the neck and presently he smashed her head against the ladder, rattling the wood, his hair in his eyes. The knife clattered from the woman's loosening fingers, and she stared up at him in shocked terror.

"Jesus! What are you doin'?" said Arthur sharply. He was watching this with the same shocked dismay that Rane was, his brow furrowed. "Easy, Dutch!"

"Hey, Christ, don't do that -" Rane pulled her wand. "Dutch, just let her go, I can -!"

He listened to neither of them, instead giving the old woman a final, swift knock, and there was a harsh snap as her neck broke. This done, he let her fall to the rock wall, brushing his hands off on his shirt as if he'd just touched something slimy. Rane stared at him, not entirely able to believe what she'd just seen, her mouth turned down and her eyes wide. Here it was again. The guy had been joking around with her not twenty minutes ago, and now he was standing over some little old woman's fresh corpse, cool as you please.

Arthur was gaping at him too. "What was _that_?"

"Horrible old crone." Dutch turned to look at him, quite unruffled.

"But you killed her." Arthur could not seem to wrap his head around this one.

"She was gonna betray us, Arthur," said Dutch, and shrugged.

"Betray us?" said Rane, faint, looking at the old woman on the ground. Her head was crooked and her eyes stared sightlessly up. " _Betray_ us?"

"Yeah." He gestured at Rane. "Couldn't you tell? Couldn't neither of ya?"

Rane said nothing. Arthur shook his head.

"No," he said, low.

"Well." Dutch started up the ladder. "I got some Spanish. She was."

Arthur watched him a moment longer. "You sure you're alright, Dutch?"

Dutch stepped off the ladder, fixing Arthur with a look that struck Rane as incredibly predatory. Her hand was still wrapped around the wand in her pocket.

"I am just tryin' to make sure some of us survive, Arthur," said Dutch, his voice husky and cool. "Now, shall we proceed?"

Arthur and Rane watched him a moment longer. Then Arthur stepped forward, glaring at Dutch, and started up the ladder, shaking his head.

"I guess."

At the top of the ladder was a platform, looking out onto a broad stretch of land, and Rane had no doubt at once they'd come to the right place to find Javier. The buildings beyond were stone-forged and tall. Military or prison, it made little difference, he was probably here. Arthur, Dutch and she crouched behind the pillars surrounding them, all staring out, getting a lay of the land.

"So how did you know she was gonna betray us?" Arthur asked Dutch. "What'd she say?"

Dutch shrugged noncommittally. "It was in her eyes. And the way she was leadin' us."

"But you said you knew Spanish."

Arthur and Dutch looked at one another a long moment.

"I know human beings, Arthur," Dutch said at last. His voice was icy, condescending, and Rane felt another urge to go for her wand in the presence of this man. Christ, he was far gone. She wished she could get Arthur alone and talk to him about it, but that wouldn't happen yet, not this morning.


	29. Javier's Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, Dutch and Arthur decide how to take on Javier's captors

_So I get up off the ground_   
_And I shake it out_   
_Come, look at me now_   
_Look at me now_   
_I'm not here to talk_   
_I'm just here to walk_   
_Here to walk the walk_

**\- Jane's Addiction**

______________

“What’s your play?” said Rane.

Dutch was staring out onto the grounds beyond. Arthur was watching Rane, his gaze so full of unspoken communication that he could have been shouting with his eyes. He was full of the same trepidation she was after seeing that woman back there murdered, and like her, he was unable to speak it aloud. Below them, Javier was visible in the dust, being dragged by the leg behind a burro, shouting in Spanish, his face bloodied and filthy. His captors were surrounding him, easily twenty strong, all armed with big irons. Presently they tossed him into a cell on the steps of the building, quite unceremonious, shutting the door behind him and laughing raucously, audible even up here. The sun was high and hot in the sky now, the wind sharp and fierce and redolent of saltwater.

“More like what’s _your_ play, my dear girl,” said Dutch.

“ _My_ play?” Rane looked at him in surprise, breaking from Arthur’s gaze.

“Yeah, yours. Make yourself useful and go knock them boys down.”

“By myself, you mean?”

Dutch nodded, his face quite impassive, looking down toward Javier. “That’s just what I mean.”

Rane mouthed for a moment, silent, a little astounded.

“Dutch, there’s more than a dozen of them just from what we can see from up here, you expect me to just go down there and -?”

“Well the way John tells it you took down that many once already and made it out okay,” said Dutch, quite composed. “We had our little talk earlier, Rane Roth, about you doin’ as I say. So you do as I say now, like I asked.”

Arthur scoffed loudly, giving him an alarmed look.

“Dutch, that’s - we _can’t_ let her go down there and -”

“Sure we can.” Dutch eyed him, his gaze grim and forbidding. “Or maybe you need remindin’ who’s in charge too, same as she did?”

“ _Dutch_!” Arthur glared at him, his eyes slightly desperate. “You’re liable to get her and Javier killed if you -!”

“Never mind.” Rane was drawing her sword and her wand, giving Arthur a warning look. “It’s fine, I’ll go do it.” Then, when he continued to stare at her, breathing roughly, his face pained, she shook her head. “I’ve dealt with longer odds than this, Arthur, it’s fine. Just cover me, both you guys.”

“What are you gonna do?” Arthur asked sharply.

“I’m gonna curse them or put this piece of metal through them, whichever comes first,” said Rane shortly, setting her shoulders and moving forward. “You guys stay back ‘til the fighting starts, please.”

“Rane, no, don’t -!” Arthur sighed roughly, exasperated. “Don’t _do_ this, goddammit -!”

“Hey.” Rane spread her hands expansively, smirking at him. “I’m fine. I always am. Just do what Dutch says, right? Isn’t that what I’m ‘spose to do?”

Dutch cast her a rather cool glance at this, gesturing with his gun. “Go on, girl, quit mouthin’ off.”

Rane did at once without another word, vanishing down the stairs in a whirl of dark hair. Arthur looked over at Dutch, his eyes furious beneath his tousled hair.

“Dutch, you’re gonna get that girl killed _dead_ you keep it up -!”

“Yeah, well, that’s how it works in this family,” said Dutch, returning his gaze, his eyes glimmering with something almost like malice. “We all gotta risk our hides once in a while, your girl included.”

“There’s a dozen _goddamned_ -!” Arthur stopped, checking his volume, shaking his head, and continued, his voice lower. “There’s a dozen goddamned men armed with semi-automatic weapons down there, Dutch, you sendin’ in a young girl to -?”

“Yes, I am, Arthur.” Dutch waved a dismissive hand at him, his eyes on Rane’s lean form, striding down the stairs and crouching before the stone fence that surrounded the bastille they’d come upon, her long hair whipping around her head and her sword glinting at her side. She was already small below them. “Shut up, now, I wanna watch her work.”

“Wanna watch her die, more like.”

“Quit it, she’s gonna be fine.”

Arthur fell silent, following his gaze, but his heart was thumping madly beneath his shirt as his eyes followed her and his breath was quick and harsh. Dutch glanced over at him shrewdly.

“Quit panickin’, Arthur. You’re jumpier than a damn hen in a foxhouse.”

“I’m fine,” said Arthur, low, tracking Rane’s form below with sharp eyes, frowning. “And ain’t no such thing as a foxhouse where I come from, Dutch, so that don’t even make no sense.”

Dutch laughed.

“She’s fine, you got more spine than all that.” He gestured. “Look, now, _she_ sure as hell has. Girl ain’t afraid of jack shit. Except heights, I guess.”

Rane had reached a small extension of the camp, something like a blacksmith, and there were two men inside, both clad in blue chambray shirts, turned away from her, clearly quite unaware of her presence. Dutch and Arthur leaned forward, watching her, as she crept up on them, slow and low, her motions relaxed and predatory, wand held before her and head wavering lazily back and forth like a viper as she watched them. Even from such a height, Arthur felt a jolt of anxiety at the set of her body. She was goddamned scary.

“Christ, she moves like a damn coyote or somethin’,” Dutch remarked, low.

“I was thinkin’ of a cat, actually,” Arthur replied, matching his tone, one hand grasping the stone wall. Dutch exhaled gently, shrugging.

“Yeah, maybe a cat’s better.” He shook his head. “Arthur, I think fearin’ for that girl’s life is a fool’s game.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t have to test it, Dutch, nonetheless,” Arthur snapped, glaring at him.

There was a flash of red light below them and both the men fell down into the dirt, motionless. Rane knelt before them, seeming to touch their throats with one hand, her long hair still blowing behind her, then straightened, looking ahead.

"Well, there's the vanguard down, anyways -"

“Hush, now, she’s comin’ up on Javier.”

Dutch was watching Rane with sharp interest, and Arthur had a moment, glancing alongside him, to feel a rather cold and uncharacteristic resentment for him. He was watching the woman Arthur loved risk her life with impunity, and he was doing it the same way a scientist would watch an amoeba squirming beneath a microscope.

“You sure are bein’ strange, Dutch, and I don’t care much for any of this shit.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t my job to make you care for the shit I do,” Dutch replied, rough, not meeting his eyes. “Hush, I said.”

Arthur did, breathing hard, his eyes on Rane’s form far below. She’d crept up on the men who’d dragged Javier to his little cage. There were many of them, all armed, and Arthur leaned forward, his eyes following her, pulling his revolver and holding it at his side. Dutch glanced at him, grim.

“Arthur, I can damn near hear your heart pounding all the way over here, you got the look of a man who’s about to try somethin’ stupid. Will you calm the fuck down, please?”

“I’m fine,” said Arthur again, but Dutch was right, his heart was hammering beneath his shirt almost hard enough to hurt. “I just don’t wanna see her cut down, is all.”

“She won’t be.” Dutch pointed. “Look here. What’d I say.”

Arthur turned his gaze back to the grounds below, his breath rough and harsh. Rane had made herself known in the middle of the group of men, striding out of hiding with both hands extended palms-out. The sounds of voices, faint, came to them. It didn't take long for Javier's captors to decide they didn't care for this stranger, and presently they began firing and shouting, the rapid patter of the semi-auto rounds sharp and echoing. Arthur jerked, his brow furrowed, beginning to take aim, but Dutch grasped him by the arm and yanked him back roughly.

"Wait," he said. "Give her a second before you give us away."

Rane’s hands had been extended when she strode into their midst, moving slowly, but when the bullets began to fly her sword was in her hand in an instant, flying madly. The glint of their rounds soaring away from her was sharp in the sunlight, striking the building and sending up little clouds of dust, as were the sparks flying from her blade. And now her sword had gone to her left hand and her wand to her right, and there were streaks of light flying from its tip, striking her attackers. They were falling like flies before her, and she was advancing with that same lazy ease Arthur had seen at Shady Belle, her sword twirling about her wrist. It was no contest, even outnumbered.

“Christ.” Dutch was shaking his head, low, grinning, his voice a touch deferential. “Would you look at that, Arthur? _Would you just look at that_?”

“Yeah, I see it,” Arthur replied, his voice soft. “Now let’s go down there and -”

“Hang on, hang on, look at this,” said Dutch, pointing with his pistol and sounding delighted. "No damn need, she's got em down to the wire."

Arthur did, reluctantly. Rane had finally cornered the three men surrounding Javier’s cell. They were all aiming at her, shouting and jerking their weapons, but Rane was advancing, her sword lowered, clearly talking to them, perhaps offering them quarter. It must not have worked, because a second later the whole trio opened fire, the pattering of their bullets distant as rainfall from their height, and Rane’s sword flew, not just deflecting now but aiming their fire back at them, just like she’d done in the bank in Saint Denis. It took the space of five seconds and all three were down, two of them still and one struggling. Arthur watched as Rane approached the remaining man, who’d been winged and was writhing on the ground, attempting to crawl away, the shine of his blood visible even from such a height. Rane drew near him slowly, her sword loose in her hand, speaking to him again. Then, in a swift, vicious motion, Rane lifted her sword a final time, whirled it around her wrist once, and then plunged it down into the left side of his chest. He jolted once more and fell still, arms falling lax, and Rane turned her face up toward the citadel, waving with her free hand, then wiped her bloody sword off in a bunch of her shirt and sheathed it.

Dutch laughed delightedly, slapping his knee and moving out of cover, grabbing Arthur’s arm. “Come on, my boy. Don’t I see why you like her. Don’t I ever.”


	30. Rane Takes a Hit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coup and the escape ship take a bad turn

_Look to the stars_   
_Let hope burn in your eyes_   
_And we'll love, and we'll hate and we'll die_   
_All to no avail,_   
_All to no avail._   
  


\- **Muse**

________________________

Thanks to Rane, getting Javier Escuella safely out of harm's way was leagues easier than either Dutch or Arthur could have imagined. Once they’d reached the grounds below, both staring around at the dead men littering the dirt, Rane had already broken the lock on Javier’s makeshift prison and rejuvenated him. He was standing of his own volition, still bloody and filthy but clearly no longer injured, staring at Rane with obvious shock. Rane herself was dragging the bodies of the three soldiers that had been guarding Javier off to the side of the platform and out of sight.

“You alright, son?” Dutch asked him, drawing near and placing a hand on his shoulder. “You hurt? We came as soon as we -”

“Did you _see_ that? Did you see what she _did_?” Javier was gaping at Dutch and Arthur, his voice a little wild. “ _Dios mio_ , every last damn one -!"

"Yeah, we saw it," said Dutch. "You hurt or not?"

"- c _ielo santo_ , Arthur, she asked them three there if they’d surrender to her and then killed two of 'em outright and that last one mouthed off to her and - and - and _Christ_ , Dutch I ain’t _never_ seen -!”

“Take it easy,” said Arthur, smirking, a trifle amused. “She told us what she was, quit actin' all scandalized. Answer Dutch, Javier, are ya hurt? Can ya walk?”

"He's fine. Just shaken up."

Rane had approached again, brushing her hands off on her jeans, the last of the dead soldiers stashed out of sight.

“I’m gonna Appar - er, I’m gonna, I dunno, magic us back to camp, if that’s okay,” she said, slightly winded, bending over her knees. Dutch noted the streak of drying blood on her shirt where she’d wiped off her sword. “Arthur can tell you it isn’t very much fun, but it’ll be safer. I’m sure there are more of these guys around.”

“It’s pretty goddamned awful,” Arthur agreed grimly. “We could just go back through that cave instead -”

“ _No_ , no, no, no.” Rane shook her head hastily. “I’d rather lick a cheese grater than walk on that cliff again. I mean, you guys are welcome to, I'll see you in an hour and a half, whatever floats your boat -”

“What’d that last one say to you?” Dutch asked her, unable to help himself.

Rane sighed, rubbing the back of her neck ruefully, her brow knitted. "The one at the end, you mean?"

Dutch nodded.

“Something nasty about my mom.” She shrugged, looking a trifle guilty. “I gave every one of them a chance to let me tie them up and leave them and they all said no."

Dutch eyed her a moment, chewing his lip. “Jesus."

Rane cast him a slightly defensive look. "I gave them a _chance_ , Dutch."

"I ain't faulting you for it, girl." Dutch shook his head. "Alright, let’s get outta here.”

HERCULE met with Dutch and Micah alone later that day, as the sun began its inevitable descent in the West. Rane, Arthur, Javier and Bill were not invited, and though Rane wasn’t surprised that she’d been left out of the meeting - Hercule hadn’t trusted her from the moment he’d set eyes on her - she was surprised that Arthur had been eschewed as well. And she wasn’t the only one. He’d sat next to the fire opposite her, glaring off into the distance, smoking cigarette after cigarette before flicking them away irritably, coughing roughly. Javier had spent most of the afternoon recounting to Bill his arrest and rescue, but Arthur continued to say nothing.

Eventually, Rane had gotten up and sat down beside him, touching his arm, nodding toward the cigarette between his fingers. Bill and Javier were still deep in conversation, heedless.

_Maybe lay off those, huh?_

_Oh hell. Not like it matters much now._

Rane had looked at him for a moment, frowning.

_Hey_ , she’d said gently. _Don’t worry about them. Seriously_.

_Micah over me_ , Arthur had muttered, shaking his head. He’d hesitated, then added, _and that shit in the cave. I don’t know what the hell to think about anything anymore._

Rane sighed, leaning forward over her knees and rubbing her forehead. She knew what he meant. Dutch had inspired some reticence in her since she’d met him, even some suspicion, but this was the first time she had been genuinely alarmed by his behavior. The way his mood had shifted so quickly - angry, happy, laughing, then suddenly homicidal, callous, cruel - had alarmed her, too, as did the way he’d sent her in to save Javier by herself. He had done it to test her loyalty, sure, but she thought it had also been meant as a little fuck-you to Arthur, and why he would do that to his second in command was a mystery to her. It was a conversation she and Arthur would need to have at some point, that much was clear, but with Bill and Javier sitting six feet away, she wasn’t about to bring it up now.

_Just don’t worry right now_ , she had said at last, squeezing his shoulder. _He’ll be back soon and we’ll find out what’s going on._

This turned out to be true. Dutch, Micah and Hercule came striding back into camp not an hour later. Rane watched them from over the fists clasped before her lips, her eyes on Dutch. He had a definite spring in his step. So did Micah.

“You know what I just realized, Roth?” he said cheerily, seeing her watching him. Rane sighed.

“Pray tell.”

“You got about the biggest dumbest eyebrows I ever saw in my life,” said Micah, and laughed heartily. “You oughta take a scythe to them damn things, girl!”

Rane laughed with him. “Hey, so if we’re doing suggestions, maybe close your fuckin’ shirt, Lebowski, because nobody wants to see your gut.”

Micah stopped laughing and glared at her, jerking his lapels a little closer together. “I got half a mind to shut you up myself, girl.”

“Second time’s the charm, baby.”

“Good news, my friends,” said Dutch expansively, ignoring them. “Mister Fontaine here was good enough to secure us a ship to the mainland.”

Arthur and Bill got to their feet. “No shit?” Bill said sharply.

“None whatsoever.”

“What’s the catch?” asked Arthur warily.

Dutch sighed, glancing at Hercule, who was watching Rane with suspicion as usual.

“We gotta take out some of Fussar’s boys to get there, is all. They’re lined up on the beach guardin’ the docks. We got weapons,” he added as Javier sighed, looking exasperated. “We’ll be okay. Hell, we got you out of damn prison today, didn’t we?”

“ _Somebody_ did,” Javier murmured, low. Rane heard it, but she wasn’t sure Dutch did.

“Christ, more shootin’, then.” Bill was massaging his brow. “When?”

“Now,” said Dutch. “If you all are ready. It’ll be docking in the next hour and a half or so.”

“Likely sooner,” said Hercule. “You are aiding a good cause. I promise you.”

“What kind of men are these?” Rane asked Hercule. “Artillery? Big caliber?”

“Yes,” said Hercule, nodding. “Heavy weapons. He is funded very well.”

Rane sighed, rubbing her temple. She didn’t feel much like fighting anymore today. Dutch heard it and cast her a dire look.

"You takin' issue, honey?"

"No issues taken here," said Rane flatly, biting her lip.

“Good. Because we’re gonna do as I say.”

"Don't we always?" Rane asked, a trifle truculently.

"We do, indeed, my dear sweet girl," Dutch replied, casting her a rather vulpine smile. "Lest you forget."

“Welp.” Arthur dusted off his jeans and yanked his gun belt a little tighter around his waist. “I guess we don’t have much choice, do we?”

Arthur wasn’t looking at Dutch - he was looking down at his belt, pulling the prong closed, his brow furrowed - so he didn’t see the expression of genuine antipathy that crossed Dutch’s face at these words. Rane saw it, though. It was not the hearty look of a politician working to garner support amongst his subjects in that moment, but one of frank mistrust and paranoia.

“That you don’t,” Dutch said grimly.

“Want me to scout ahead, take ‘em all out for you first?” Rane said before she could stop herself.

" _Heeeeey_ ," Arthur drawled, giving her a high-browed look and shaking his head warningly. "No need for that."

Dutch turned to look at her over his shoulder, ignoring Arthur, his eyes hard and cold. “I might could do, yeah, if you don’t watch yourself. Come on.”

They traveled together down to the ocean side, Hercule’s men in close tow, all taking care to keep their weapons against their chest and their dark eyes on Rane. She watched them as she went from the corner of her eye, the wind whipping about her face, one hand on the hilt of her sword.

“Quit eyeballing them,” said Arthur from the corner of his mouth, frowning. “You’re gonna piss one of ‘em off, Rane.”

Rane scoffed. "I already pissed them off, what does it matter?”

“Just mind your fuckin’ manners til we can get outta here." Arthur's voice was quite coarse, a hair's breadth away from remonstrative. "That’s all I’m askin’.”

Rane glanced at him, her brows knitted. “What’s wrong?”

“The hell do you think?” he snapped.

Rane fell back out of step with him, chastened and a little hurt, dropping her eyes. He hesitated, slowing, then looking back grasped her hand in his briefly, his eyes blue and chagrined in the low light.

“Sorry.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m a little bit fucked up in the head, Rane, is all.”

“Well, join the club.”

She leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth in the growing dusk, then marched on after Dutch.

“There.” Hercule had paused near a long bridge leading to a beach, pointing with one hand. “See that?”

They all peered into the distance. There was indeed a ship tethered offshore, and the beach was littered with men, many of them in the same garb that the ones who’d imprisoned Javier had been. Rane pulled her sword.

“How many do we need to kill?” she said, low.

“As many as we can,” said Hercule coldly.

Rane twirled her sword once around her wrist. “Then let’s get this shit over with, I guess.”

  
  


IT wasn’t a difficult fight. Bill, Javier, Dutch and Micah were all sharpshooters to be reckoned with, same as Arthur Morgan. Rane didn’t need to do much except deflect the oncoming storm of bullets, which was more to her liking than striking men down. The day was waning over them, the sun red on the sea and the sand crunching beneath her boots, when a familiar voice called her name.

“Rane Roth! Turn! We have business to discuss!”

She started, her sword dropping to her side amidst the hail of bullets around them, and spun around, her hair whipping about her face. Limdur stood there, striding toward her, and as he came he shed his green cloak onto the sand with a shrug, watching her beneath his brows.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, completely taken aback.

“We sent a raven to Ylle Thalas,” said Limdur, drawing near. “ _Undunai_ has no child. You told me a lie, girl.”

Rane took a step back, suddenly afraid.

"Limdur, hang on, now, I can explain -"

"I asked that of you once before," said Limdur quietly. "And I received untruths."

"Rane?" Arthur called from the bridge behind. Rane chanced a glance backwards and saw Arthur starting forward, looking at Limdur with bewilderment. She waved her free hand wildly at him.

“STAY _BACK_ , ARTHUR!” she shouted at him, her eyes forbidding. He halted, hesitant and alarmed.

“You are no Eldarin,” Limdur was saying, approaching her. “You speak our tongue but you are not one of us -”

“I’m not from - from this - this _time_ -” Rane struggled, feeling inept, watching him approach her fearfully. “Limdur, it’s not so simple as that, it’s not for _years_ that -!”

“An easy lie for mortals to tell,” said Limdur, and now he was feet from her, his lean form cast into dire countenance in the sunlight. “Easy indeed.”

Dutch, crouched on the bridge and returning fire, grasped Arthur’s shoulder. “Who the hell is _that_?”

“One of them Elves from before, and he looks pissed.”

“Should we shoot him?”

“I don't rightly know yet,” said Arthur, but he aimed nonetheless.

“You gonna kill me because you're too stupid to understand?” Rane asked, but she was still backing away, her boots sliding in the sand, and Arthur felt his heart falter a little at the sight. He had never seen her back away from a fight before. If she was prepared to retreat, than it was a dire threat indeed. Her words in Hostas recurred to him: _These people are better than I’ll ever be. They’ll anticipate everything I could ever conjure up a second before I even think of it._ “I’m one of your own _people_ , Limdur -!”

“You are nothing but a liar,” said Limdur calmly, “and as I told you when I gave you succor in my city, we do not suffer liars to pass.”

His sword was drawn in an instant, hideously fast, and Rane’s draw was, for the first time in her life, very nearly too slow. She blocked his blow, meant for her chest, and she was flung onto her back into the sand, crying out. She leapt to her feet, swinging and blocking him, and with an effort fought him back, twirling her sword around her wrist and striking at him, her breath coming hot and sweat gleaming at her hairline.

“You are slow because you are young,” Limdur said, laughing, and pushed her back as she blocked him, her feet sliding in the sand and her teeth gritted. “And you are weak because the grace of the Eldar is not with you.”

Her sword flew, but his was faster, and in an instant he had parried her and smashed his blade into her shoulder lightly. She cried out, blood dashing to the sand, taking a step back and clutching her arm. Arthur moved as if to go to her, but Dutch grasped him.

“Arthur, we got bigger problems, get these gunners down so we can get to that boat,” he said, gesturing to the men on the beach aiming for them.

“DUTCH -!”

Dutch snatched at his shirt, his eyes dire. “Let that girl deal with her kin and do as I SAY, Arthur, goddammit!”

The bullets were flying toward them and Arthur ducked, returning fire, but his eyes flashed to the beach frequently, his mouth downturned, his heart beating hard. They were clashing swords freely now, their movements fluid and practiced, the red sun reflecting off of them in bright glints and Rane’s hair flying around her face. Her brow was furrowed and her mouth was turned down into a sneer of effort, her face shining with sweat and the muscles in her arms flexing desperately.

“Girl, you cannot contend with me,” Limdur was saying, laughing, easy and untroubled. He parried her again, swung her blade around in a clanging circle and then took another slap at her thigh. Rane screamed, going to her knees, and now blood was falling freely from her leg as well as her shoulder, littering the sand beneath her. She was losing, and badly. Limdur backhanded her, dashing blood from her mouth, and she glared up at him for a moment, breathing heavily.

"One bested so easily is no daughter of _Rochon'baug_ ," Limdur said coldly. A bullet whined past him and he deflected it without looking, sending it ricocheting away. "She is no daughter of the Vanyar -"

Rane got up laboriously, crying out with effort, swinging her sword against Limdur's, and with her spare hand went for the wand in her boot.

"STUPEF -!"

“NO!” Limdur cried, and slashed at her hand. The blade took her on the knuckles, opening a long wound and spilling more blood onto the beach, and Rane’s wand clattered to the sand as she screamed in surprised pain. “YOU WILL NOT WITCH _ME_ , WOMAN!”

He kicked her hard in the center of her chest, and Rane flew back, fumbling her sword with her injured hand. Limdur leered over her, and she blocked a single more blow from his sword, her teeth gritted and her eyes hard against his, moaning with effort, the muscles in her shoulders trembling. But he allowed it only for a moment before flinging her blade away from her hands with a single smooth gesture. Then, taking his own sword, he plunged it into her chest, glaring down at her. Rane gasped roughly, her eyes widening. Arthur, on the bridge above, stood even among the gunfire and screamed her name.

“You are a fool to try and deceive me,” said Limdur, and then ripped the blade from her body. A spray of blood followed it, and Rane gasped again hoarsely. “Even a -”

He stopped abruptly. A single hole had appeared in his forehead, and Arthur stood on the bridge, gun still extended. Limdur watched her a moment longer, clearly bewildered, and then fell down dead in the sand, his blade clattering at his side, still smattered with Rane’s blood.

Arthur skidded to halt at her side, sand spraying. Rane was digging at her chest, boots scrabbling in the sand, her face pale, moaning low in her throat. Arthur placed both hands over the wound, pressing hard, feeling the rush of warm blood leaving her beneath his palms, staring at her desperately.

“Where’s your wand?” he said roughly, looking down at her, his heart hammering. “Where is it? It’s just like before, when you was shot -!”

Her eyes were large on his, blood trickling from her mouth, gasping hoarsely. Arthur looked around, staring toward Dutch, panting.

“HELP!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “SOMEBODY HELP, GODDAMMIT!”

Dutch skidded up to aid, pressing his hands over Arthur’s, covering the wound. “Keep pressure on it, Arthur, hold on tight -”

"Oh Jesus," Arthur moaned, looking down at Rane's chest. Blood was seeping through their piled hands even now, squeezing through their fingers, and Rane's face was _so_ pale, the blood on her lips shockingly vivid. He could feel her heart pounding beneath his hand. "Oh Christ, oh Jesus fuckin' Christ, you gotta be shittin' me -!"

“Shut _up_ with that shit a minute!” panted Dutch, casting him a dire look. He aimed one bloody hand back toward Bill, who was running toward them. “Hercule said there’s a doctor on that boat, now go find him! FAST, dammit!”

Bill sprinted off at once, sand flying at his heels.

"Jesus Christ," said Arthur again.

"Quit that," said Dutch. "I can feel her heart beating good and strong, so stop bein' so damn dramatic for a second. You're okay, girl, you just hang on in there -"

"Sorry," Rane gasped at Arthur, her voice harsh. "Sorry. He was too good, I told you -"

"Shut up, Rane, quit talkin'," said Dutch.

"Girl, you gotta quit pickin' fights," Arthur said, looking down at her, his eyes overbright. "Oh, honey, you gotta quit pickin' fights."

"I make no promises."

"Shut up, I said, quit tryin' to talk," said Dutch roughly. He peered toward the boat, his black hair flying around his face. "Where the hell is that goddamned Bill?"

Dutch and Arthur pressed on the wound in Rane’s chest, and as she looked up at Arthur the last thing she knew was gray nothingness.


	31. Another Boat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kind stranger helps Rane to not succumb, and Arthur greets her with enthusiasm

_Pardon me, sir, is this seat taken?_   
_I overheard you say, "not stirred, but shaken,"_   
_And I could really throw one back_   
_Such thirst doesn't always permit for tact_   
_So, if you would, sir, pardon me_   
_A stiff one is my specialty._

**\- Lovage**

______________________

Rane woke next on a ship, opening her eyes to a listing wooden ceiling with the sound of the tide crashing against the hull. It was late evening judging from the red-orange light streaming through the port window, and the sounds of boots and male voices were audible above. She turned her head, resettling her tongue in her mouth - Christ, it was drier than the Sahara in there - and had a look around.

It was more of a storage closet than a room, really. There were cleaning supplies all around, buckets and mops and a few guns and cases of ammunition, and hanging from the ceiling were the drying carcasses of what Rane thought might be King Mackerels, their sleek silvery scales coated in grains of salt and sugar. It smelled like fish, saltwater, brine and mildew, and the cot beneath her was wide but about as soft and luxurious as a stack of bricks. The blanket strewn over her was scant, hardly holding together, and looked suspiciously like repurposed burlap. She peered around, her brow furrowed, doing what she always did after she'd been cold-cocked, and found what she was looking for almost at once. On a shelf nearby her sword had been stowed, sheathed and hung still on her belt, and her wand, filthy and covered with granules of sand but unbroken, lay propped against it. Thank God for small favors, anyways.

Rane sat up a little, meaning to go for both, and immediately fell back down to the cot, moaning. There was a pain in her chest so fierce it felt like a hot poker embedded in her breastbone. She clutched at her ribs, hissing with dismay.

“Nay, nay, take it easy now, mate,” said a voice to her left, and Rane's head whipped around, startled that she hadn't seen anyone else in the room until this moment. A young, slightly built man was getting to his feet from a chair, dark-haired and blue-eyed and rather strikingly good-looking. He wore a sailor’s attire and spoke with a faint Cockney accent, and there was a stethoscope hung around his neck. “You lay right there good and still, love, you ain’t in no fit shape to go wandering about just yet, now.”

“Who are you?” Rane asked, her voice hoarse and a trifle suspect.

The man sketched a little bow, twirling one hand with a rather droll flourish. “Dr. Aleman Topley, at your service, mum. I'm lookin' after ya while you're on the mend, is all, not to worry.”

Rane let her head fall back momentarily, wincing. “My chest hurts, Aleman Topley, why is that?”

“Well, your shifty-lookin' mates updeck say you was stabbed by some bloke.” Topley was pulling his chair up to her side and taking a seat, his eyes roving over her chest, scrutinizing her. “You was bleeding out like a stuck pig when they carried you onto this old rust bucket, lassie. Looked like a pretty big blade from the size of that wound, at that."

“Jesus,” Rane muttered, passing a hand over her face. It was coming back to her now. “That skeevy blonde-headed twat put his sword in me. That’s what it was. On the beach.” She shook her head, glowering at the ceiling, her voice lowering. “The fucker _stabbed_ me! Son of a _bitch!_ ”

“Aye, and that bastard he used musta been thicker than a damn pine trunk. Proper jammy. Went all the way out of you backways, too, dinnit?"

Rane made a face, morbidly curious in spite of herself. "Oh, _gross_ , did it really?"

"Aye. It really did."

"Like out of my _back_?"

"Aye, all the way, in one and out the other, judgin' by the wounds. I seen some other survivable ones in the war that was worse, love, but not too many. And not so much as a split rib, either. You might just be the luckiest bird on the face of this good earth, methinks. Blokes buy it for far less."

"I don't feel very lucky."

"Take me word on it, lass." Topley was fidgeting with his stethoscope, adjusting a knob on the side of it and not looking at Rane, clearly a little amused. "You was skewered like a hen on a spit, weren't ya?"

"Is it gonna scar?"

"Well if it don't, I shall be positively chuffed for you, love, but I ain't a betting man, meself."

Rane snorted, wincing at the twinge in her chest. “Christ, I can't believe I'm not dead.”

“Nor can I.” Topley was rolling up his sleeves, smirking a little. “Though at the risk of sounding cavalier I’m quite bleeding good, as they go. That may or may not have had something to do with it, love.”

"I can see that."

"Well, if ya can't, I'd have to refer ya to an optometrist, Miss," said Topley, quite unabashed, glancing at her from beneath his brows. He was still adjusting his stethoscope. "But I think them pretty eyes see just fine, don't they, love?"

"Are you flirting with me?" Rane asked him, bemused.

"And layin' it on mighty thick at that."

Rane laughed in spite of herself, feeling the tug of tape against her skin as she did. She touched her chest tentatively, feeling the roughness of bandage there, taped not around her but across her crudely. The buttons of her shirt were undone all the way down, hanging around her bare belly, and the gauze seemed to stop just above her navel.

“How’d you do it?” she asked, genuinely curious. She had not been healed by anything besides magic for as long as she could remember.

Topley laughed, shaking his head. He was placing the ends of his stethoscope into his ears. “Years of trial and error, love, same as anyfink. Quiet a sec, now.”

“You can’t be more than twenty-two, how are you a -?”

“Age ain’t nothing but a number, bird. Hush a sec, I said, I want a butcher's hook to see how that clock in you is faring, be silent for your life.” He placed the bell onto Rane’s chest, listening, his eyes on the ceiling and his mouth turned down. “Deep breath for me, pretty girl, don’t be shy.”

Rane took one, her lean ribs straining against the bandages. After a moment Topley pulled away, looking satisfied and hanging his stethoscope around his neck again.

"Fast because of the handsome bloke doin' the listening, I hope, or just normally that way?" he said, smirking.

"Normal," Rane replied, eyeing him a little wryly. "Don't get too familiar, doctor."

Topley looked mournful, grinning. “Yeah, well the goddamn Royal British Legion could march to it, Miss. I dunno how that bloke’s knife missed anything important, but I sure do wish I could take you with me to London and write it up. I’d never work another day in me damned life.”

“Where’s Arthur?”

“Who?” Topley was getting up, brushing himself off and pulling the chair back to the edge of the room, his hair in his eyes.

“Arthur Morgan.” Rane gestured to her head. “Blonde, kinda scary, tall. Big irons. Sort of fuck-everyone aura about him.”

“Aye, the big grim feller.” Topley nodded. “I seen him updeck. I’ll fetch him for ya. He’s been after ya all day and night.” He glanced at her as he tucked his shirt in. "That your fella, miss?"

"I like to think so, yeah."

Topley clutched his chest mournfully, looking skyward. "Oh, don't that smart. I was halfway to decidin' how I'd propose, lassie, I'll tell ya no lies."

"Sorry," said Rane, smirking back at him. "And thank you. For your help."

Topley placed his hat on his head and tipped the brim, his eyes glittering beneath its shadow. "Pleasure doin' business, bird. Sit tight, I'll straight away and send your boy down."

ARTHUR Morgan came skidding down the stairs a few minutes later, slipping a little on the damp wood and kneeling before her cot, flinging his hat away with abandon and grasping her face. Rane laughed.

“Put that thing in neutral, Arthur, good lord -”

“Christ, I thought you were as dead as Lazarus when I saw that big bastard stick that thing in you, Rane -”

“Well, much like Lazarus, here I am anyways,” said Rane dryly, sitting up with an effort, and taking Arthur’s face in her hands she kissed his mouth. He tasted overwhelmingly like whiskey, and she drew back, looking at his dilated pupils and flushed cheeks with dawning realization. "Holy shit, are you like . . . wasted drunk right now?"

Arthur shrugged, shaking his head. "I dunno, hell, maybe -"

"Why?"

"Because we're stuck on a fuckin' boat and I thought you were gonna die, why the hell you think?"

"Where are we?"

Arthur sighed, shaking his head, and broke out coughing for a moment. "Not far from Saint Denis. Captain says we oughta make land before sundown. We're gonna try to get off without the law noticin', though I'm fucked if I know how _that's_ gonna play out."

"Is everyone okay?"

"Yeah, nobody was hurt 'cept for you," said Arthur, smirking at her. "Me and Dutch were wearin' your blood neck to knees by the time we got you on board. That English feller, Topper, he said you -"

"Topley."

"Oh, pardon me all to hell and back, _Topley_ ," said Arthur demurely, lifting his hands. "i guess you musta saw how purty he was to look at -"

Rane scoffed. "Arthur, he saved my life, quit being that way."

"Well, anyways, Topley or Topper or whatever the fuck his name is, he said you were probably gonna die in the night," said Arthur, his words lilting a little. "He didn't think you'd make it 'til dawn, Rane. He warned us all it was likely gonna happen, said to get ready for it. I was beat up. So was Dutch."

"God only knows I should have, that fucking asshole wiped the floor with me." Rane glanced at him, massaging her collarbone. "Must have been fun to watch though, right? I mean, a real swordfight and everything, like Hector and Achilles? You gotta admit that's pretty cool."

She mimed swinging her blade, making soft clanging noises with her mouth. Arthur didn't look amused.

"Hell, _no_ , it wasn't _fun to watch_ , you damned idiot! That son of a bitch beat the hell outta you like you was nothin', Rane. We could see how scared you looked even way over yonder."

"Well, I was." Rane shrugged, wincing at the pain it caused. "I told you in Hostas, Arthur, those guys are way better than I'll ever be. I should be dead, honestly."

"We thought you was, Rane. We all did."

This was the truth. When Dutch had rushed on board the boat, tailed closely by Arthur, Bill, Micah and Javier, Topley had been waiting, striding to the fore. Dutch had been carrying Rane in his arms, her long hair swinging over his arm and her limbs limp against him, sand clinging to her cheeks. Arthur had still been pressing against the wound in her chest, his arms covered in blood from wrist to elbow, panting. He could still feel Rane’s heartbeat beneath his palm even as she lay in Dutch’s arms, but unlike the powerful, frightened hammer on the beach, it had become uneven, leaping weakly beneath her shirt like a dying bird in a cage. Her face was white, her eyes slightly open and staring sightlessly at the sky above, her breath shallow and slow.

_Topley, is it?_ Dutch had gasped, laying Rane on the deck. She fell limply on the boards, blood soaking her from the collar of her shirt to the belt of her jeans, her lean chest moving rapidly. _You a doctor? Bill here says you’re a doctor._

_I am_ , Topley had replied, kneeling by Rane’s side. _Right, let's have ourselves a dekko, then._

He had examined her, eyeing the wound on her chest, then glanced grimly up at Dutch and Arthur.

_She ain’t run through by gunfire, this bird, eh? That looks like metal to me, mates._

_She got into a swordfight. Don’t even ask,_ Dutch added, shaking his head. _Just fix her up if ya can. I need her in one piece._

_Help her_ , said Arthur, low. His breath had been harsh and a glisten of sweat had glittered at his hairline. _Help her, mister, please._

_She ain’t but a breath away from death’s doorstep, mate, but I’ll give ‘er a go_ , Topley had said, examining Rane. _I ain’t gonna make any promises, though, am I? Blimey, but she’s hurt bad, poor damn girl. Who’d stab a young bird like that, huh?_

Topley had bent over her body, both hands on the planks, and placed an ear against her chest, his dark hair brushing her chin, his eyes squinting with concentration.

_She’s in bad arrhythmia, mates. Lost a lotta blood, I reckon, it’s not looking good._

_The fuck does_ that _mean?_ Arthur had snapped, his face pale.

_Means her heart’s doin' a bleedin' tapdance under her ribs, mister_.

_And?_

_And I ain't got time to explain, mate, 'less you wanna watch her bleed out while I lecture you on the clinical particulars. Get her below deck and I’ll see what I can do. I ain’t got much but I'll have a go, won’t I?_

Javier had knelt and scooped her up, striding off toward the stairway. Arthur had snatched Topley's wrist before he could follow.

_She gonna die?_ he had asked baldly.

Topley had faced him, his expression sympathetic. _Most likely she will, mate, I'll tell you no lies. She's in a bad way. I'm sorry, I'll do me best, but I won't make promises I can't keep._ He had touched Arthur's shoulder gently, seeing the devastation on his face _. Prepare yourselves for it, mate, just do that. And maybe we'll be surprised. But don't hope for bugger all, that's my advice to you._

"Well, I gotta say, I've been shot and stabbed and knocked around more than I'd like to be lately," said Rane, and pointed toward the shelf. "Hand me my wand, lemme fix it. I'm done with all this muggle horseshit."

Arthur did. She batted it against her palm a time or two until it sprayed purple sparks that scattered over the floorboards, making Arthur jump. "It doesn't like to work sometimes after it's gotten wet," she explained, glancing at him, then waved it over her midsection. " _Vulnera sanantur_."

The wound was closing, itching madly, though Rane couldn't see it beneath the wrappings. She prodded along her ribs gingerly, looking down at herself as she did, satisfied. Already the pain was diminishing into a vague ache, something like a week-old bruise. She glanced briefly toward the doorway and the empty hall beyond before speaking.

"You know, not pointing fingers here," she said in a forcibly light tone, "but this would never have happened if Dutch hadn't -"

"Rane, I dunno that I wanna talk about Dutch after I been drinkin', truth told," Arthur interrupted her, meeting her eyes. "I promise, whatever you're thinking on, I thought on the same thing more than once."

"Arthur -"

"Hey." Arthur shook his head, stern. "I mean it, now. I can't go there tonight, or I'm apt to say somethin' I shouldn't."

Rane nodded, yanking at the bandage. "Fine. But we _need_ to talk about him, I think. Not now but . . . we need to. _Somebody_ needs to."

Arthur nodded again, rubbing his shoulder and looking rueful. "I know it."

Rane eyed him a moment longer, then shrugged her shirt off and started to peel the tape from her skin. "Help me get this thing off, would you?"

Arthur did. It laid bare her wound, healing quickly, but it also exposed her bare torso, glimmering in the fading daylight. He dropped the bandage to the floor, looking at her chest helplessly, drunk, his eyes roving from her throat to her hips, taking in the smooth skin and the sparse spray of freckles and the gentle motion of her breath. Rane didn't notice; she was examining herself down her chin, frowning, touching the place where the wound had been with tentative fingers. There was indeed a scar in the works, running medially near the center of her chest. It was tender, but not very. She wished she'd have been with it enough to have done this in the first place.

Rane was abruptly aware of Arthur watching her, and she leaned back on her elbows.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"Are you looking at my boobs?"

Arthur shrugged, smirking, but he was, quite unabashedly. He got to his feet abruptly, striding to the door and shutting it with a snick. "Wouldn't want anybody else to get an eyeful, though, would we?"

"Heaven forbid. That's a one-way ticket to hell, the way I hear it."

Arthur turned, leaning his back against the closed door, crossing his arms and eyeing her, smirking, his gaze sharp and blue in the dim light.

"You feel better?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. "Sorta spry-like?"

"Seriously?" Rane eyed him. "Here? Right now?"

Arthur shrugged, looking abashed. "Why not? We got the place to ourselves, don't we? How often does _that_ happen?"

" _Really_?" Rane gestured. "This is a _storage closet_ , Arthur! I mean, I'm not saying I need the Four Seasons and a bed of roses or anything, but _cripes_ -!"

"Shit, that cave was way worse than this!"

Rane pointed. "Those are dead fish, Arthur. Hanging off the ceiling. _Dead - fish_."

"Oh, come on." Arthur linked his hands in his belt, giving her a doe-eyed look. "Please? I got somethin' I wanna try and I ain't gonna be bold enough later."

Rane laughed. "You're piss-drunk, sir, and I just got done being shishkabobbed -"

"You said you was feelin' better!"

Rane sighed, looking at him. He was standing near the door, his chambray shirt outlining the curves of his musculature, his shoulders broad in the low light, his mouth curved into a placatory smile and his eyes glimmering impishly beneath. Not for the first time, Rane was a little weakened by how handsome he was, and how completely unaware of it.

"Stop being so good-looking. I hate it."

Arthur took this for the concession it was and strode toward her, getting onto his knees at the side of the bed, his hands going to the buckle of her jeans. Rane, surprised, tried to rise, but he pushed her back down, his blue eyes meeting hers, his hands going to the button of her jeans.

"Huh-uh. Sit right there."

"What are you -?"

Arthur pulled her jeans away from her legs, yanking them over the swell of her hips, and cast them into a pile on the floor, then spread her legs, his grasp firm on the flesh of her thighs. For a moment he just looked, his fingers stroking her skin. Here, again, was something else he had daydreamed about beholding since he'd met her.

"Oh, honey," he sighed, his voice rough with lust. "That sure is a purty sight."

Rane realized what he was about to do a second before he did it. She glanced at the door, her eyes alarmed, leaning up on her elbows.

"Whoa, _hang_ on a second, Arthur -!"

"That door's locked, Rane. It's just me and you." He pressed her thighs apart a bit more, leaning forward, eyeing her over her flat belly and smirking. "Stay right there and hush, I said."

Rane felt the warmth of his mouth, chin rough with yesterday's beard, meet with the inside of her thighs, and tensed.

"Arthur -"

"Hush, girl, I said, or we'll get caught. Keep it down even if it starts to feel good."

Rane hushed, her breath coming a little more quickly now, staring at the ceiling. Arthur's mouth roved further up leg, kissing with infinite tenderness, his mouth warm and damp against her skin, and now Rane could sense the growing impatience within her, a sensation so raw and desperate it was almost compulsory. She wanted him in a particular place, and he knew what that place was and lingered away from it anyway. It was crazily arousing, and in that moment she couldn't have cared if they were in a storage closet or the Taj Mahal, as long as he didn't stop his ascent. The long muscles of her thighs began to loosen, and Arthur's pace increased a little, emboldened by this.

"You okay up there?" said Arthur, his voice low, rumbling against her skin, the motion of his lips on her inner thigh maddening. Rane gasped again, moving a little against the cot.

"Mmmhmm," she managed through pursed lips.

"You want somethin' I ain't givin'?" A little coy now. He knew what he was doing.

Rane said nothing. Arthur let his mouth hover over her, abruptly getting so close that she could feel the heat of his breath, and she exhaled sharply. He was watching her from beneath his brows, one hand running up and down her thigh.

"You don't like givin' in, do ya?" he remarked. His voice was lilting from the drink but perceptive nevertheless. "Bein' the one underneath."

"Arthur -"

"But you're gonna sit right there good and still 'til I'm done, because this time I got the drop on ya, isn't that right?"

Rane said nothing, only continued to gaze at the ceiling, breathing quickly. She felt his teeth graze her skin, gentle and warm and damp, his tongue flitting out and touching her. The sensation was overwhelming. Her heart was hammering helplessly.

"Isn't that right?" he repeated, his voice low. "I know you want it, now that I'm down here. I can see it with my own eyes right in front of me how bad you want it, you're wet as a Mississippi spring, dear heart. Answer me or I'll walk out that door."

Rane nodded at once, breathless.

"Okay if I get back to work, then, 'less you got somethin' meaningful to add to the conversation?"

Rane nodded again, words failing her. Arthur's mouth continued its exploration of her thigh, but Rane felt one of his hands release her leg and suddenly touch her, running down from top to bottom. It was a gentle thing, barely there at all, but it was maddening nonetheless, and Rane moaned a little, betraying herself, her thighs tensing. Arthur eyed her as she tried to cover this momentary weakness up. She wasn't used to being placed into a position like this by a man, especially one like him.

"Someone's gonna walk in on this, you shouldn't -"

Ignoring this, Arthur rose suddenly, leaning over her, and pressed his mouth against hers hard, his tongue flitting out and caressing her own. After a moment he drew away, seeing her leaning up for his mouth and smirking.

"You wanna kiss me some more?" he asked her quietly. "Looks like you do."

"Please . . ."

Arthur lunged out of range as she went for the back of his neck, watching her, still grinning. "Nah, nah. I ain't done with you yet."

Rane felt a sudden flash of resentment at this. She tried for her feet, but Arthur caught her, placing his hands over her arms and forcing her back down onto the mattress, the springs clanking under them.

"Let me up," Rane panted. "You're drunk."

Arthur held her fast, looking into her eyes, still smiling. He was handsome in the dying light, almost irresistibly so. Rane's heart was still pounding at the thought of his mouth on her thighs and his fingers so, _so_ close to being inside her. Her breath was quick and rough.

"I ain't gonna let you up, Rane."

"I don't want it."

Arthur placed a hand in the center of her chest, staring into her eyes. "Your heart's beating awful quick for somebody who don't want it."

Rane lay back, looking at him, breathing hard. Arthur bent and kissed her, very gentle, his lips touching hers only scarcely despite her desire to press hers against his as hard as she could.

"Sit there and let me put my mouth on you, darlin'." He was kneeling again. "I insist."

Rane did, leaning back, helpless not to. His lips were warm and rough on her thigh again, and presently he let two fingers slide a little ways into her, his breath hot against her skin. At this Rane cried out for the first time, her voice low in her throat, grasping the sheets in her fists, the muscles in her belly flexing as she panted. Arthur eyed her from beneath his brows.

"You like when I do this?" he asked from between her legs, and then ran his fingers into her once more, a little deeper. "Feels like ya do."

Rane said nothing, only relished the sensation of him in her, exploring, the breath coming quickly in her chest and her ribs flexing. Arthur removed his fingers and looked at her.

"Say," he commanded.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I like it." Rane sighed, all power departed now. "Please."

"Please what?"

Rane scoffed, inarticulate with fervor and frustrated to find herself so.

"Please what?" Arthur placed his mouth just over her, in the place where she was swollen and throbbing, not touching her but lingering above, and the breath of his speech was hot and sweet against her. Rane groaned loudly, the muscles in her midsection tensing. "You got somethin' you wanna say?"

"Please do it. Please. I can't stand it."

Arthur laughed heartily. The heat of his breath grew briefly stronger as he did, sending another roiling wave of desire through her. "Can't _stand_ it? A second ago you didn't even _want_ it, I thought!"

His mouth was on her then, finally in exactly the right spot, and Rane's head fell onto the bed, her eyes squeezed shut. She could have screamed. Christ, she hadn't been this turned on in years. His mouth was strong and warm and wet, his chin rough and his tongue strong against her. It was unpolished, bush leagues in spite of his bluster - Rane wondered how many times he'd done this before - but nonetheless the sensation was irresistible, almost maddening. If he stopped now, she wasn't sure how she would react. She could feel an orgasm, dizzying and large, approaching in her belly like a tempest.

"Arthur - you're gonna make me -"

"No, I ain't." Arthur rose at this, leaning over her, pressing his mouth against hers. "Not yet."

He had freed his cock from his jeans and presently he traced it up and down her. Rane groaned low in her throat, her head rolling back on her neck.

"You want me?" Arthur's mouth hovered over hers, his breath hot and quick, watching her face.

Rane grasped a fistful of his shirt, meeting his eyes, panting. "Arthur, I want you so bad I -"

Arthur entered her in a sudden rush, hard and fast, and Rane's eyes rolled back in her head, her back arching helplessly, biting back a scream. The sensation was so unimaginably good she could not have put it into words. She was full of his pulsing hardness and the love of it was almost too much to stand. He, too, was leaning over her, his face transported, eyes soft, looking at her face, his pace already quickening.

"You like that?" he breathed, and the smell of cigarettes and whiskey and sweat was strong on the breath that blew back the tendrils of hair before her face. "Huh?"

Rane nodded, gasping. "I'm close, I'm so close -"

"Christ, me too. Get there." Arthur thrust harder, watching her greedily, his blonde hair falling into his face. He leaned back, looking down at her intently, his hips working and his breath quick, clutching her thighs. "Christ, you're beautiful. Get there or tell me how to."

"Are you gonna -?"

"If you keep lookin' that good, yes ma'am, I am."

She wrapped her thighs around him, strong and tight, and thrust against his his hips hard, and it was more than enough. Arthur's head lolled back on his shoulders, crying out, leaning toward her, his heart pounding beneath his shirt wildly, and in the same moment Rane's back arched and she groaned against his shoulder, her fingernails digging into his skin. For a moment they both lay there, gasping for breath.

"I'm not really sure I believe that you just went down on me in a storage closet," Rane said at last.

"You can't?" Arthur panted, laughing a little.

"No, I certainly cannot." Rane kissed his neck, feeling the throbbing pulse there. "I can count on one hand the times I've had it that good."

Arthur touched the spot between her legs gently, and she jolted a little at his fingers, sensitive.

"No man ever wanted to get in there? As purty as you are?"

"Never like that."

"Sirius?"

Rane sighed, looking away, her smile fading. "You wanna know how good at it he was next, I bet?"

Arthur looked away, chastened. "Sorry. I'm drunk, darlin', I didn't mean to say that."

"Well, for the record," said Rane, a little coldly, "he made me plenty happy without his mouth. That enough information for you, Arthur?"

Arthur glanced away from her, his brow furrowed, rubbing his chin and looking a little hurt.

"That was a bit too much, if we're bein' honest with each other."

"Then quit asking about him," said Rane roughly. "I don't like to talk about him, I've said it a hundred times, if you'd ever had -"

"I had a woman, and a kid," said Arthur suddenly, meeting her eyes. Rane's mouth snapped shut, shocked. "Eliza and Isaac. That was their names. They were killed in a robbery years ago, because I wasn't there for 'em. I was off doin' Dutch's dirty work." His voice rose suddenly, his face reddening. "You think you're the only one who lost somethin', Rane? Who's lost somebody you cared for? You ain't!"

Rane recoiled, looking at him in surprise. A moment of tense silence passed between them. Arthur was watching her, his gaze hard, leagues from the gentle, lavish expression he'd worn a few moments before. He had dragged this information up from some deep, hidden place in his hurt and drink, and Rane had never suspected it. She had cut him more deeply than she'd thought, just now, that much was clear. When she spoke, her voice was soft and placatory.

"You had a _kid_? Arthur, you never told me that you -"

"Yeah. I did. He's dead now, like I said. And I bet when I sober up I'm gonna regret the hell outta openin' my mouth about this." Arthur turned from her. "I don't wanna talk about Isaac, anymore than I wanna talk about Dutch. I just thought you oughta know."

Rane was silent a long moment, then reached out and took his hand in hers. He resisted for a moment, but she pulled, persistent, and eventually he lay down next to her, placing his head on her chest, and she wrapped her arms around him..

"Arthur, I love you," she said softly, stroking the sweaty tendrils of his hair. "I do. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I shouldn't have said that." She hesitated, then added, "if you ever want to . . . you know, tell me more about them . . ."

Arthur clutched her torso to him, listening to the steady thump of her heartbeat just beneath her breast, eyes falling shut. "S'okay, honey. You hush. Just hold me."

Rane did. Soon they were asleep.


	32. Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane and Arthur land in Lemoyne again, and speak on their quandary

_Hypnotic sound of sirens_   
_Echoing through the street_   
_The cocking of the rifles_   
_The marching of the feet_   
_You see your world on fire_   
_Don't try to act surprised_   
_We did just what you told us_   
_Lost our faith along the way_   
_And found ourselves believing your lies._

**\- Nine Inch Nails**

________________

It was that evening, after Arthur and she crept ashore near Saint Denis, that Rane remembered everything.

There was no sense to it, the way it happened, and later she found herself wondering what the catalyst had been. It wasn’t evident on a glance, anyways. Dutch had sent her and Arthur on their task once the stars had emerged overhead, waving them away onto a lifeboat with all his usual pomposity. Rane had watched him from beneath her brows as she’d helped Arthur and Javier lower it to the surface while the sailors barked orders at one another behind them. He’d seemed jittery, his mouth turned down, his motions quick and uncertain and sometimes jerky, like a spooked animal. She didn’t like the way his hostile eyes had lingered on Arthur, and she liked even less the way Micah seemed to be constantly at his elbow, speaking to Dutch in low tones meant only for the two of them, the flicker of his eyes on their companions perceptible under the starlight.

_He’s getting worse_ , she’d remarked to Arthur as he rowed them toward the shore.

She’d been sitting opposite him, hands on the wooden seat, the water lapping around them and the smell of brackish water and swamp strong in the night air. The ship they’d sailed in on was anchored a ways off now, and Rane knew from the subtle sounds striking her sharp ears that Dutch, Micah, Bill and Javier were lowering their own lifeboats now, the creak of the pulley and the rope audible even over the whistling wind and the ceaseless chirrup of crickets, if only to her.

Arthur had continued to row, but he met her eyes nonetheless. He’d rolled his sleeves up, and he was filthy, the neck of his shirt damp with sweat and his hair in disarray beneath his hat. He was coming up on nearly a week without a razor and the stubble on his face was darkening now, everywhere except for that curious little scar on his chin Rane had noticed. For the first time, as Rane met his eyes in the gloom, she appreciated fully that he _looked_ sick. He’d lost weight, his eyes were shadowed and the bones in his cheeks stood out prominently. The night before, after their unprecedented and somewhat lurid sexual encounter in her quarters, she’d woken in the wee hours, looking over at him. He had been stretched out beside her, fast asleep, one arm flung over his eyes, and his breath was slow and rough in his throat. _Wheezing_ was the word for that sound, she’d recalled abruptly; it was a word she’d seldom had occasion to use. She had watched him for a long moment, hating the sound, then slowly knelt, the springs creaking under her, and placed her ear in the center of his chest, his skin warm beneath his shirt. The slow thump of his heart sprang to the fore, gentle in his repose, growing slower on each exhale. And there it was; the rumbling, raspy sound of his lungs, loud and coarse, nearly drowning out his heartbeat. Rane had recoiled, looking down at him, nauseous. If she had ever doubted his truth, she didn’t have to now. She could hear it for herself.

_You hear what I said?_

_Yeah, I heard ya_. Arthur continued to row, looking down, the muscles in his shoulders working.

_He’s crazy, Arthur, I’m pretty sure_. Rane continued to watch him, rocking gently with the waves. She’d hesitated, then taken the plunge, articulating something that had been on her mind for days. _Did he get hit on the head or something?_

_Christ, Rane, that ain’t funny -_

_I’m not kidding. Think back, Arthur, did he? He acts like somebody concussed or brain-damaged or -_

_Alright, that’s enough._ Arthur shook his head, his voice offering no quarter on the issue. _We can talk about Dutch if you want, Rane, but not here. Not right now._

Rane had subsided then, recognizing defeat. They had reached the bank, the hull scraping in the silt beneath, and Rane had leapt nimbly out into the water, her boots splashing, wetting her jeans up to the knees, and yanked the rope out of the fore before Arthur could, wading to the shore and looping it around a tree nearby, feeling Arthur’s knowing eyes on her.

Presently they strode toward the city itself. They were on the far outskirts, the lights of the town proper golden and bright in the hazy, humid air to the east. They were both looking in that direction, Arthur’s hand on the butt of his pistol and Rane’s on the hilt of her sword.

“Where do we go?” she asked, low. “Right to Shady Belle? Camp out here? What?”

Arthur pulled a pack of smokes from his breast pocket, lighting one beneath cupped hands, the flame igniting his face, before waving the match out and throwing it aside. Rane had the impression that he was either taking his time answering or pondering the quandary. Maybe both.

“Nah, we ain’t campin’ out here,” he said at last, blowing twin jets of smoke from his nostrils.

“Why not?”

“Because this here’s Murfree country,” said Arthur, matching her tone. He paused, coughing into his closed fist for a moment. “I ain’t keen to tangle with the likes of them.”

“Murfree?” Rane was yanking her jeans further up her waist, readjusting her belt, her long hair dangling before her face, the buckle clinking lightly. “What the fuck is a Murfree, pray tell?”

“Bunch of low-down kin-fuckin’ sons of bitches, and they ain’t happy to find strangers kippin’ out on their lands.” Arthur shook his head, pulling her to a stop on the side of the road. “We gotta stay in town tonight.”

“In _Saint Denis_?” Rane gaped at him. “After what we -?”

She hushed as a man rode past them on a chestnut stallion, hooves clopping on the damp stone. Arthur and Rane watched the horse’s rear diminish toward the town, its long tail flicking behind it.

“They ain’t gonna recognize me,” said Arthur flatly. “Nor you. They want Dutch, they don’t give a shit about none of the rest of us, not really.”

“Arthur, you told me there was a five-grand bounty on your head,” Rane said roughly. “And I’m being chased down by aurors, and you better believe _they_ know what I look like -”

“If they show up, we’ll deal with ‘em.” Arthur flicked his cigarette away, looking at her frankly. “I’ll be honest with ya, Rane, I’m tired as hell and my damn head’s done in with all this shit just this moment. We can’t camp out with them Murfrees runnin’ around here and the next town is ten miles west, and we ain’t got no horses. We’re gonna stay here tonight, get us a bite to eat, get us a room and tomorrow morning we’re gonna go from there. Shady Belle ain’t goin’ nowhere tonight.”

Rane sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Fine.”

“You’re my wife ‘til tomorrow mornin’,” said Arthur, eyeing her as he started toward the city proper, pulling his hat lower. “Anybody asks, we got hitched six months ago at a church in Annesburg, your pa officiated. And don’t pick no fights, mind your manners for a change. No funny looks and no sharp tongue and no magic, nothin’ to draw attention. I wanna walk outta here in the mornin’ without the law on our asses.”

Rane gasped, grasping his arm coquettishly and fluttering her eyelashes. “Your wife? _Me_? Little old _me_?”

Arthur snorted, but Rane could see the flush of color in his cheeks and grinned.

“Quit bein’ such a damned idiot, Rane.”

“Not a very husbandly thing to say.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Rane fell into step with him, still clutching his arm, the breeze wafting her hair back. He made no attempt to pull free from her this time, and she pressed a little closer to him, relishing his warmth and the firmness of his arm beneath her touch.

“Feels almost like a date,” she remarked.

"Which part? Sneakin' off a boat as fugitives or pretendin' not to be wanted folks in a big town? Because I can't decide which one is more romantic."

"We're going to a tavern together to get a drink," said Rane, casting him a long-suffering look. "Not the _fugitive_ part, _that_ one. It's kinda nice."

“Well, I ain’t never had the privilege, but I guess I gotta admit I'd like it with no one more, honey,” said Arthur, and bending towards her placed a kiss on her temple.

Rane laughed, but she was no stranger to the spark that ignited in her belly at the sound of this, and she grasped him tighter, her boots stuttering a little, feeling her heartbeat pick up a bit in her chest.

“That right?”

“You know it is.” Arthur bent and placed another kiss, this time on the corner of her mouth. “After last night I’d think you’d know it for sure.”

“Last night.” Rane laughed, low. “Oh, last night.”

“You think less of me.”

Rane laughed. "Quite the opposite."

"You didn't like it?" This was barely turned up at the end into a question, and Rane felt Arthur's reticence to ask. "I ain't done that very many times before."

“Coulda fooled me, I haven’t had an orgasm like that since I was eighteen.” Rane snorted. She looked at him appraisingly for a moment, then turned back to the road, still clutching his arm. "Remind me to feed you whiskey again sometime."

Arthur laughed, a little flushed. "Well, I'm glad you approve."

They walked in silence for a few moments, Rane peering around them.

“Never thought I’d be married,” she remarked, smirking.

“Well, allow me to remind you that sadly you still ain’t, Miss Roth.”

“I mean, for real for real.” Rane glanced around them as they strode through the city, approaching its center now. The lights were brighter, the chatter of patrons outside the shops and bars growing to a fever pitch. There was music, piano and harmonica and a female voice singing French in a rapidfire tune that was lovely and strangely smutty, The air was humid and warm, the air redolent of piss and vomit and flowers. It was weirdly fetching. Rane felt quite at her ease, despite the knowledge that there were hard men on their tails. The idea of spending an evening here with Arthur Morgan was a little fanciful, despite the circumstances.

“What d’you mean, for real for real?”

“I mean, like actually getting married to someone,” said Rane. There were people around them now as they entered Saint Denis, trotting on mounts or striding past, and she lowered her voice a little. “Like really doing it. Y’know, somebody proposing, going and standing in front of God, all that shit.”

"You ever got close to it?"

"Well." Rane laughed, low. "I was betrothed once to a Elf, but I dissolved it. But that hardly counts. Just social obligation shit, not like I liked him. Hardly even knew him."

“You and Sirius weren't man and wife?”

Rane shook her head. “We lived in sin like the heathens we were.”

“Did he ever ask ya?”

Rane thought back a moment, still clutching Arthur’s arm. She felt his other hand reach over and fall atop hers and was grateful for it. He liked her closeness, despite his bluster, and she was happy to know it.

“No.” She shook her head. “He never did.”

“Why d’you think that was?” Arthur asked, his voice low.

Rane glanced at him, uncomfortable and a little nauseous. Evoking Sirius while she was with Arthur always made her feel unsettled and sort of besmirched. He was long gone from her life, but it still felt very like adultery. Perhaps it always would.

"Oh, man." Rane sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. Had they ever even discussed marriage? Had Sirius ever even _mentioned_ it? She couldn’t recall, if they had. It made her feel a little sad. More than a little, truth told. “I don’t remember. I don’t think it was ever on the table. We were both fugitives by the end of it.”

“It bothers you, don't it?” Arthur was watching her shrewdly. Rane scoffed, rolling her eyes and trying to appear blasé.

“What are you, a psychiatrist? That was ages ago."

“I see it in your face. It bothers you he didn’t ask.”

Rane sighed roughly. “Look, man, marriage isn’t everything when I’m from, that’s all. People can still have relationships without a bill of sale.”

“But it’s somethin’ to you.”

Rane shrugged, a little uncomfortable.

“You think he didn't wanna?"

Rane shook her head, blinking, surprised and a touch hurt. "I don't know what he wanted, Arthur, and I can't exactly ask him now. That's a hell of a thing to say, don't you think?"

Arthur stroked his chin as they walked, looking thoughtful.

"Lemme ask you somethin', what d'you think Sirius woulda thought about me?" he asked, looking down at her from beneath his hat. There was a coy little smile playing around his mouth. "Think we woulda gotten along?"

"No," said Rane at once without hesitation. "He'd be jealous. Probably try to antagonize you."

"That the kinda feller he was?" Arthur's voice was light, a little chiding. "The fightin' kind _and_ the sort that lets a year go by without finding a ring for his lady? Startin' to sound like a little bit of a son of a bitch to me."

"He _wasn't_ -" Rane sighed roughly, frustrated, rubbing her forehead. "Sirius was . . . he was underdeveloped in a lot of ways, like, emotionally. Temperamental. Passionate. All those years in Azkaban -"

And that, right then, was when it happened. Rane stopped, releasing Arthur’s arm, and suddenly fell to her knees, weak, her mouth falling open and her eyes on the skies above.

“Oh, God,” she gasped.

“Rane?” Arthur’s voice was faint, seemingly far away, and she felt him getting down and grasping her arm. “ _Rane?_ ”

Her eyes remained on the night sky, her breath suddenly coming rough in her mouth, her knees on the damp cobblestone beneath her and her hands clutching at her chest, brows furrowed. Everything was suddenly, shockingly accessible. _Everything_. It was returning to her in a rush, like floodgates being flung open.

“I remember it,” she breathed, her hair in her face. “I remember it all. Oh, Christ, _all_ of it.”

Arthur shook her gently. “What’re you talkin’ about? What’s the matter with you?”

Rane fell to her hands and knees, her palms meeting the damp cobblestone, and stared at the ground, still panting. The stone was rough and cool beneath her touch, and her eyes flicked over the sprigs of grass springing up between the stones, wavering beneath her breath, green and vital. The dirt. The smell of horseshit and cigarettes. It was overwhelming. The barrier between her mind and what had come before she’d woken up in Lemoyne had been cast aside with impunity, suddenly and fervently, _flung_ aside, and it had laid bare everything else. She remembered her father, her childhood in London and Carolina, the Death Eaters following them. The years she’d spent in Hogwarts. The long time in training to become an auror. Her shitty, moldy apartment in London with its flickering lightbulbs and shifty furnace. Her long nights at the Ministry, tired and bleary-eyed, paperwork to the gills. Dumbledore, finding her there and taking her to Grimmauld Place - Number Twelve, how long had it been since she’d thought of _that_ place? Its dusty parapets and its gray rooms, the meetings held in its kitchen over the long wooden table. And Sirius Black, who’d caught her eye and found her defenses down one night on the porch, and kissed her, and his smell lingering on her skin after, his touch gentle, his eyes on hers, and then -

“I forgot.” Rane’s voice was low, and she dropped closer to the ground, her breath shuddering against the little shoots of grass. People were walking by, watching them now, and Arthur eyed them with dismay. “Oh, God, I _forgot_.”

“Rane, we gotta get up, we’re drawin’ eyes, now -”

Their night together in Sirius’s room. Then the long weeks that followed. And now other things . . . Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks, who had likely set this thing off, because _they_ were her friends, and _they_ had been married, hadn’t they? Married in secret, a werewolf and a metamorphmagus, away from the eyes of the world. Her two very best friends. And Hermione. Ron. Harry. Harry Potter, the only person besides Idril Black that Rane had cared for after Sirius was gone. And -

“Rane.” Arthur shook her roughly. “We gotta get up. I don’t want nobody stoppin’.”

“He stabbed me. In the chest.”

“I know he did, that was two nights ago -”

“Not Limdur. Voldemort.” Rane tasted the word on her lips, and it was strange, familiar and yet foreign, a word that had held potent persuasion in some long-ago. “I was trying to save Harry, and he threw that thing at me, and I died. I did, I really did _die_ -”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, but you gotta get up,” said Arthur, his voice now harsh. “Come on, girl _,_ I don't mean later.”

Rane watched him a moment, then got to her feet.

“Sorry.” She was breathing harshly, and Arthur grasped her by the waist, pulling her nearer to him. “Sorry.”

“Walk. Slow." Arthur was guiding her ahead, avoiding the curious looks from the patrons in the bar doors nearby.

"Okay. Okay."

"You on drugs or dogfood, girl? We can't be drawing attention like that! What the hell happened right there?”

“I remembered. I remembered what came before, is all.” Rane was looking at the ground, feeling his hand on her lean waist. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t -”

"Did I say somethin'?"

"I dunno."

"Well, what'd you remember? Christ, I thought you were havin' a fit or somethin'."

Rane sighed, still reeling from these realizations. The memories were swirling in her mind, presenting themselves again and again in little flashes. Albus Dumbledore, lying dead beneath the towers of Hogwarts. Idril, being lowered into her arms, freshly born and lovely. Bill Weasley, cornering her in a broom closet, drilling her about Harry, his eyes cold and harsh in the dim light. Her father, teaching her to use a sword in the backyard of their London home. Many others.

“I’ll tell you, but let's get some drinks first.” She sighed, scrubbing at her forehead. "I need a couple."

THEY sat at the bar, side by side, both glancing around a little uneasily, but no one was watching them. Well, Arthur amended, that wasn't strictly peaking true; lots of men were watching Rane - hell, damn near all their eyes had followed her inside - but that was fairly par for the course, she was an unusually pretty girl and he was learning to bear this sort of thing with grim amusement rather than jealousy. None of their gazes seemed familiar, which pleased him well enough.

"Two whiskeys," said Arthur, lifting his chin toward the bartender.

"Three," said Rane.

" _Whoa_!" Arthur murmured reproachfully as the bartender slid them three shots. Rane pulled two toward her, looking at him from beneath her brows, then slammed them both in quick succession, sighing roughly. "Take it easy there, champ!"

"Trust me, if you'd just remembered how you died, you'd wanna get drunk, too." Rane lifted her hand toward the barkeep, and he began pouring her another, eyeing her curiously. "Keep 'em coming, my dude. One for my gentleman caller, too."

Arthur watched her as the bartender slid them each another shot. "What exactly was it you remembered out there, now? You wanna tell me or you wanna keep bein' all mysterious about it?"

"The second one," said Rane, and tossed back her drink. "I am an enigma veiled in mystery. Way cooler that way."

"Come on, tell me. And take it easy, I said," he added, pushing her wrist down as she went to throw back yet another shot. "We just got here two minutes ago and we ain't goin' no place else, take your time at least. I don't wanna have to carry you to bed."

Rane sighed, rubbing her face with both hands. "I remembered _everything_. About my other life."

"Your other life?"

"Yeah. The one I was living before I came here. Ninety-odd years in the future. Most of the people that were alive with me aren't even born yet. It's a mindfuck." She sighed again. "And I died. Voldemort stabbed me with this great big rock thing, right through the heart. Kinda like Limdur did. I dunno, maybe that's part of why it all came back like that. All those things I forgot, it all just came back, all at once. Scared the living breathing Christ outta me."

"Who's Voldemort?"

"Remember that resistance I told you about?" said Rane. "The one I was in? Well, he was the one we were resisting. Biggest baddest wizard ever to grace the skin of the world, at least then. We were fighting him and he stabbed me. I was alive for like, another minute, maybe two, people all around me. My dad, Harry, everyone. Raining, blood all over me, scared to fucking death. Then it was dark and I wasn't there anymore. I call that dying. I guess."

She fell silent, chewing her lip, then took her shot, grimacing. Arthur watched her, saying nothing. Her gaze was on the lines of dusty liquor bottles on the wall behind the bar, her hazel eyes flickering between them and her mouth turned down. She was leaning over the bar, her shirt clinging to her lean waist and both feet linked around the barstool's legs, her fists clenched before her mouth and one boot heel jittering like mad.

"You ain't kiddin', are ya?" Arthur muttered. "About any of it."

"Wish I was."

"How you think you got here?"

"I'm half-Elf, I'm a _peredhil_ ," said Rane at once, as if she had been thinking on it for some time. Her voice had already picked up a faint lilt from the whiskey. "They never knew if I was immortal. I guess I am. I guess I die in one place and wake up someplace else. Maybe when I die here it'll happen again. Not like, _real_ immortal, but whatever this is, I think that's it. I think that's what it is. Like some fucked up version of reincarnation, except it's just me, getting fucking . . . I dunno, flicked around like a pinball in a machine."

Arthur pondered this, a trifle horrified. "Christ, Rane."

"Yeah, it's fucking sepulchral," said Rane, and snorted, waving at the bartender. "Never got to use _that_ word before. Fuck me up, mister. Double this time."

The bartender did, eyeballing her as he slid the shots toward her. "Lady, you keep it up and you'll be on the ground in half an hour."

"That's the idea," said Rane, tipping the glass his way. "Cheers."

"Alright, alright, Christ," said Arthur, taking the remaining shot and downing it himself. "Enough fuckin' whiskey, Rane, I said. You wanted to talk about Dutch, but now I'm worried about whatever the hell just happened to you."

"Well, that makes two of us," said Rane. "But I can't imagine what good could come of talking anymore about it, unless you can manipulate the space-time continuum or something."

"Not without some lubrication."

Rane snorted. "Arthur, Dutch is off the deep end. He really is."

"Christ." Arthur shook his head. "Did you see what he did to that woman in the cave? Like she was a goddamned - I dunno, a rabid dog. Just put her down."

"Yeah, and how about sending me in to clean up twenty dudes by myself to get Javier out of his cage?" Rane added. She nodded to the bartender, holding up two fingers and ignoring Arthur's cocked eyebrow.

" _Beers_. Make it two _beers_." Arthur lifted his eyebrows toward the bartender pointedly. "She's all done with liquor tonight, I think."

"I never let men order drinks for me," said Rane loftily, pulling the pack of smokes out of Arthur's breast pocket and mouthing one out.

"Well, we all gotta try new things, it's the spice of life," said Arthur, snatching the pack back and lighting one, letting the lit match hover beneath Rane's as well before waving it out. "He thought you could do it alone, Rane, I think that's why he sent you in. And incidentally, he was right."

" _Thought_ ," said Rane, tipping the smoke toward him. Her eyes were a little red. " _Thought_ , but didn't _know_. What d'you think he'd have done if I was gunned down, Arthur Morgan? Twenty-one gun salute? Six white horses and a color guard?"

Arthur considered this. "Probably he'd have pulled me in and shot them boys out, and then headed back with Javier."

"That's right. He would have moved right the fuck on, likely would have stepped over my cold-ass corpse to do it, too." Rane drew deep, exhaling twin jets of smoke through her nostrils. "Arthur, Dutch didn't do that because he thought it would be easier, he did it to see if I would obey him even if it meant I might be going in to die. And he did it to poke you a little bit, too. But I can't figure out the last part."

"Why would he be testin' your loyalty?"

"I assume because I bucked up to Hercule," said Rane, shrugging. "He didn't like that I did it while he was yelling at me to quit. You remember how he got into my face when we got back to camp?"

Arthur fell silent, pondering this. "Yeah, I reckon he did."

"So why did he want to piss you off?" asked Rane, looking at him.

Arthur massaged his rough chin for a moment, fingers rasping over it. The barkeep slid two perspiring glasses of amber beer toward them as he did, and Rane immediately downed a quarter of it. She was very much keen to cease sobriety for a little while in light of all this, and it was working so far.

"Dutch has Micah in his ear," said Arthur at last. "And Micah don't like that me and John are so close to Dutch. I think he sees us as . . . I dunno . . . obstacles, or somethin'. I think he's poisonin' Dutch against us."

"Micah," Rane murmured, scoffing, and drank deep again, the cigarette clutched in two fingers on the side of the glass. "What an absolute dumpster fire, that man."

"You don't like him too much, huh?" Arthur was eyeing her over his beer mug, vaguely amused.

"Oh, I hate him like sin, yeah."

"Why?" Arthur was curious.

"Because he's a snaky son of a bitch," said Rane, flapping a hand. She was well on the way to trashed now, and the waver in her voice spoke to it. "Always up Dutch's ass, always yapping and yammering on like he knows shit about shit, always the first one to shoot. Christ, you saw him in camp the first night I was there, he didn't even know me and he tried to fucking _murder_ me. Doesn't exactly speak volumes about his moral fortitude. Slippery, backsliding bastard. Why'd you guys pick him up, anyway? Was somebody d- _hic_ -dumpster diving one day or something?"

Arthur drank deep, then set his mug down, sighing. "I dunno. Dutch found him somewhere. We didn't get much say."

Rane belched, glaring at the liquor bottles on the wall. "Sounds like quite the democr -"

"You two from outta town, ain'tcha?"

Rane and Arthur both glanced to Rane's right, where a towheaded man in a pinstriped shirt was leaning against the bar. He was eyeing Rane with clear lasciviousness, his gaze roving from her lips to her chest and up again, quite unabashed. He reeked of liquor and smoke.

"Why you say?" said Arthur, eyeing him.

"Yer ladyfriend don't talk like somebody from Saint Denis," said the man, gesturing to Rane. "She sounds funny when she talks. I was listenin' from over here."

"Funny?" Rane cast him a slightly affronted look over her beer. "What's that mean, funny?"

The man shrugged. He was being pretty open about it, gawking at her neckline and yanking at the crotch of his trousers. Regular Casanova. Rane watched this with distaste before turning her eyes away. "Dunno, just funny-soundin'. You sure are purty, missus, if it ain't too forward to say."

"Be still my heart," said Rane dryly, her voice tilting a little from the drink.

"Me'n my _wife_ are here lookin' for work," said Arthur, putting a gentle emphasis on the word. "We're from up near Annesburg. Maybe folk sound different there to your ear, is all."

"Just got married a few months ago," Rane added, sipping her beer, still not looking at him. "My dad officiated. He's a preacher. Man of God, through and through, isn't that right, darling? Blessed be his name."

Arthur said nothing, only drank his beer, smirking toward the liquor bottles before them. The man on Rane's right snorted, delighted.

"Never saw no preacher's daughter drinkin' ale in a saloon before."

"Well, now you have," said Rane, and met his eyes, sipping pointedly. "Consider yourself anointed with the cool waters of enlightenment, brother."

"Huh?" The man was still watching her with clear interest, his eyes flicking over her features. "You sure do talk funny, missus, like I said."

"Probably all that holiness up in me."

She felt Arthur's boot kick her ankle smartly and turned her eyes away from the man, smirking and rolling her eyes.

"What's yer line of work, mister?"

"Lumber," said Arthur promptly. "Got a contract down this way for a couple-few months. Once I get my money we're gonna head west, start a homestead."

"Huh. And what about yer purty ladyfriend here, what's she do? You work, miss?"

"She ain't my ladyfriend, she's my _wife_ ," Arthur said again pointedly, eyeing him, and leaned forward a little across Rane, fixing his eyes on the stranger. "No offense, mister, but we're talkin' private matters and we'd like some quiet."

"You ain't married," said the man, scoffing and leaning back. He lifted a chin at Rane's hand, which was resting on the counter, quite unadorned. "You ain't got no rings on."

"Can't afford none yet."

"Well, that ain't exactly holy matrimony." The man touched Rane's shoulder gently, and Rane pulled away at once, her gaze meeting his with haste.

"Don't touch me," she said, very low. "First and only warning."

"I told ya she was my wife and still you wanna talk to her that way?" said Arthur, his voice rising a tick. "That ain't very gentlemanly of ya. I gotta ask you again, mister, to let us alone so we can go on talkin'."

"Have a drink with me, sweetheart, will ya? I got a table."

"I would not like to go to a second location with you, no," Rane said dryly.

"Leave the lady the hell alone, mister," said Arthur, a little sharply. "She ain't interested."

The man turned his eyes on Arthur, swaying a little, drunk and hostile and grinning derisively. "Well, boy, you sure got a smart mouth for somebody sittin' in the wrong town. 'Specially somebody sick as you are, obviously -"

Arthur got abruptly to his feet. Rane looked over at him sharply, but he wasn't looking at her, his eyes were on the drunk man at Rane's side, who was stepping away from the stool as well, wobbling.

"You say somethin' to me? I didn't catch it." Arthur's voice was low and dangerous.

"Nah, I didn't say nothin'. I was talkin' to the lady here on this -"

He had put his hand on her waist, just shy of her rib cage, and before Arthur was quite sure what was happening Rane had spun around, slipping off the chair, and pulling her sword straight up used the hilt of it to smash into the man's chin. He gave a surprised grunt, blood dashing from between his teeth, and fell to the ground, knocked stupid. The rest of the bar patrons were looking at them now, and the cheery piano man ceased his playing momentarily, eyeballing her.

Rane sheathed her sword, the clang loud in the silence, looking at Arthur. "He got handsy, quit looking at me like that. I told him."

Arthur glared at her, then downed the rest of his beer in a go and slapped a few coins onto the counter top, looking at the bartender. "We need a room. Quickly, please."

THE door banged open and Arthur held it for Rane as she staggered in, shutting it behind them roughly. He watched her wobble to the bed and sit down roughly.

"You know, girl, you don't listen so good sometimes."

"I don't like strange men touching me," said Rane moodily, adjusting the sword on her hip.

"Well, that's fine, but we just got the whole damned bar interested in us, Rane, now we -"

" _INCARCEROUS_!"

Rane fell off the bed, bound, shocked by the suddenness of it. Arthur shouted, but his voice was quickly muffled. She had neglected to look behind them, and so had he. There were three men in their room with them, and one of them had thrown an arm around Arthur's neck as Rane was bound, dragging him backwards against the wall. His wand was pointed at Arthur's throat, and Arthur, clearly shocked, was scrabbling at the man's arm with his fingers, his eyes wide and shocked. Rane had fallen awkwardly, halfway upside-down, her arms wrapped painfully beneath the rope. The third man strode around the bed, clad in a duster, eyeing Rane and smirking. Rane recognized the horseshoe mustache easily enough.

"Harker," said Rane coarsely. He was bending before her, digging into her jeans, and relieved her of her wand, tossing it aside. "That's your name, right?"

Harker straightened, looking down at her, grimly satisfied, eyes glittering from beneath his hat.

"We got some problems, Miss Roth, that ain't been resolved," he said, and the man holding Arthur jerked him roughly, digging the tip of his wand into Arthur's throat. "You broke a whole hell of a lotta laws and we need to figure somethin' out here pretty quick."

He kicked her without warning in the small of her back, and Rane writhed, hissing. Arthur jerked against his captor.

"HEY! QUIT THAT!"

"You made a fool of me twice now," said Harker, glaring at Rane without sympathy. "I don't much appreciate bein' made a fool of by a bunch of damned muggles and a limey witch."

"I'm not British," Rane said, still wincing at the pain in her back from his boot. "Do I _sound_ British to you, you Podunk hick?"

"You go on and talk as much shit as you want, girl, but I still got the drop on ya this time," said Harker smugly, and kicked her again.

"Let her alone!" Arthur said sharply. The man holding him jerked him, wand still aimed at his throat.

"Hush, pretty boy, 'fore I hex your damn balls off. Best believe I can."

Rane was still struggling beneath the rope, glaring at Harker. "Let him go, he doesn't have anything to do with me."

Harker bent over his knees, smirking at her. He was clearly enjoying himself. "Oh, he don't? You wanna try to tell me this feller never seen nothin' come outta your wand before? Go on, say it. And lemme remind you that we got veritaserum handy for folks who don't wanna tattle on themselves back at headquarters, by the way."

Rane fell back, saying nothing. Her hand was still wrapped around the hilt of her sword - Harker had caught her just right - and presently she began to flex her shoulder against the tight bindings, attempting to draw it from its sheath. Wizards always took the wand and neglected everything else, it seemed. Complacency, she supposed, even after Harker had seen her throwing gunfire away from her with the damned thing in her hand. Woe unto them if she got a grip on it.

"Oh, boy. This here is a different feller than that black-headed Scotch boy we caught you with the first go-round, ain't it?" said Harker, laughing. "You must have a pretty lively eye in your head, little lady, flippin' from this one to that. Different flavor for different days, I reckon."

"Let him go," said Rane again. "Let him go, I'll go wherever you want."

"Oh, you're gonna go wherever I want either way, darlin'," said Harker, and leaning down yanked a fistful of her rope, pulling her to a sitting position against the bed. "I ain't entertainin' bargains right this second, and anyways, you aint got no chips."

"Let him go," said Rane again.

"Now, let me see here," said Harker, pacing before her and stroking his mustache, ignoring her. "We got violations of the Statute comin' out of our ears, we got you whippin' out your wand in front of God only _knows_ how many muggles, we got Obliviators workin' overtime to try and cover up your mess -"

Rane's heart seemed to rise into her throat at this. " _Obliviators_? Look, Harker, he didn't _see_ anything, Christ -"

"And never mind Rappaport's Law," Harker went on, speaking over her. "You know what Rappaport's Law is, Miss Auror? They still teach that these days?"

Rane glared at him from beneath her brows, breathing quickly. Her arm was still flexing beneath her binds, and now she had closed her fingers around the sword at her belt and begun the arduous task of lifting it out without seeming obvious about it.

"I know it, yeah."

"Does he?" Harker asked, gesturing to Arthur. "Ask him, Mavins. Since he ain't know nothin' bout magical folk, supposedly, let's give him a pop quiz."

"What's Rappaport's Law, boy? You know?" the man holding Arthur asked. Arthur ignored him, his eyes on Rane. Harker aimed his wand at Arthur's feet and a spray of red sparks sprang up from the floorboards with a loud bang, scattering across the wood and hissing against Arthur's jeans. He jumped.

"Mavins asked you a question, muggle," Harker said coarsely. "Rappaport's Law."

"I ain't never heard of nothin' like that, mister," said Arthur, low.

"Well, allow me to educate ya, then," said Harker grandiosely. He poked Arthur in the chest. "Rappaport's Law says ain't no muggle and witch or wizard ever allowed to get as friendly as you two are."

"What makes you think we're friendly?"

"Don't be stupid, girl, this fool's in love with ya and you with him," said Harker, laughing. "We been watchin' ya since you got into town, all arm and arm and smoochin'. We ain't that dumb. The Magistrate's gonna hear on it, too, same as the rest. And we're gonna make sure this ol' muggle bastard don't know ya from Eve before we turn him loose o' this room, too -"

"No!" Rane jerked her arm beneath her binds roughly, yanking her sword higher, struggling. "Harker, no, _don't_ -!"

"Sorry, honey, but rules is rules and I been workin' overtime tryin' to clean this shit up." Harker aimed his wand at Arthur's head. " _Oblivia_ -!"

"NO!" Rane screamed, and with a terrific effort, the long muscles in her arms flexing and her teeth bared, she yanked her sword up within the rope around her and drove it outward, flinging the binds from her in one swift motion. All of the men in the room were shocked to see this - wizards, never taking anything into account except magic - but these were aurors, and it didn't take them long to react. The one nearest Rane started toward her, lifting his wand, and Rane turned and plunged her sword into his chest, removing it just as quickly in a spray of blood that pattered onto the floor. He fell back, gasping, clutching his chest, blood bubbling from his lips, eyes wide and shocked.

"GODDAMMIT!" Harker bellowed, aiming his wand at her. "STUPEFY! _STUPEFY_!"

Rane deflected both of these spells deftly, all awkwardness departed even drunk. One struck Harker in the chest and the other struck Arthur's captor squarely in the face. Both fell, Harker collapsing before Arthur, his wand clattering from his hand for the second time. Rane sheathed her sword, moving toward Arthur quickly. He was slumping down against the wall, looking bewildered, his arms lax at his side, and she caught him by the arm.

"Arthur." She knelt before him, grasping his lapels. "Look at me. _Look_ at me, I said."

Arthur stared at her, his eyes skating over her face with absolutely no recognition, and Rane's heart faltered in her chest at the sight of it. She shook him again.

"Who am I?" she asked. "Say. Say my name."

Arthur shook his head again, his blue eyes hazy. "I dunno but you're awful purty. Can I kiss ya?"

"No, now shut up a minute." Rane leaned across him, scrambling, and snatched her wand from the filthy floor. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She took his face in her hands, rough. "Say your name. Say it."

"Arthur Morgan."

"Good." Rane nodded. "And me, say my name."

"I dunno. A purty lady. Can I kiss ya now?"

"No, you can't. Sit still." Rane sat back a little, her feet stretching out around Arthur, her hands on the wooden floor. "Fuck. Guess they got ya."

She kicked at the unconscious auror slumped beside Arthur, her brow furrowed crossly. The spell hadn't been taken to completion, she was almost positive, so Arthur hadn't taken the full brunt of it. She let her head roll back and looked at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. There were a few options here, but for a botched Memory charm she knew just one spell that might be able to reverse it. She'd never performed it before, though, and moreover, she was quite drunk.

"Fuck it," she said at length, straightening and aiming her wand at Arthur's head. "May as well try."

Arthur grasped at her wand curiously. "That's a weird stick you got there, missus -"

"Quit it, let go," said Rane, jerking it loose. "Sit back, I said, and shut up. Do you remember shut up, at least?"

"Shore." Arthur placed a finger over his mouth, docile enough. Rane had a moment to feel a touch amused. Regular, non-cursed, remorseless Arthur Morgan would be mortified to see himself like this.

"Listen, I want you to clear your mind, don't think of anything." Rane grasped Arthur's cheek with one palm as his gaze began to slide lazily away from hers, taking his face in her hand and meeting his eyes forcefully. "Do you understand what I asked? _Quit,"_ she added sternly, lunging back as Arthur leaned in, clearly trying to kiss her. "Christ almighty, dude, focus for a second, stop doing that."

Arthur reached for Rane's face and she slapped his hand away, exasperated. He recoiled, looking almost comically stung.

"Shut up and answer my question, do you understand? About clearing your mind?"

"Shore, sheesh."

" _Memento_." Rane tapped her wand against Arthur's temple. She had never tried this spell before, only read about it, and she watched his face with a racing heart, frightened. But it worked, after a moment. She saw the low, dull realization coming back into Arthur's eyes, and the grim expression on his face as he stared around him at the lifeless bodies on the floor.

"Oh, Jesus," he said, low.

Rane grasped his shirt in one fist, shaking him gently. "Hey, look here. What's my name?"

Arthur met her gaze, brow furrowed. "What kind of a stupid -?"

"Just answer me, what's my name?"

"Rane. Your name's Rane. What -?"

"And yours?"

"Arthur."

"Arthur what?"

"Morgan, Arthur Morgan, _Jesus_ , woman!"

Rane leaned back on her elbows, sighing with relief. Arthur was getting to his feet, looking around again at the three bodies on the floor.

"What happened?" he said, bewildered. "That feller Harker . . . last thing I remember was him pointin' that thing at me -"

"He wiped your memory," said Rane, getting unsteadily to her feet. "Not all the way though, thank God. I tried out a spell I've never done before and it worked. You're welcome," she added dryly, stuffing her wand into her pocket.

"What woulda happened if it hadn't worked?"

"We would have been strangers," said Rane grimly. She was eyeing the auror she'd run through with real trepidation. The blood was pooling beneath him, and his eyes were staring sightlessly at the ceiling, glazing. This was too like her last night staying in Saint Denis for comfort. "Those spells aren't reversible. Scared me a little bit."

"Jesus, you _killed_ one of 'em?"

"Yeah, I think he's outta the race," Rane muttered, following his gaze. "That's the death penalty, killing an auror."

Arthur sighed, running a hand down his face. "You just can't stay outta trouble, can ya?"

"We gotta get outta here. Like, five minutes ago. They're probably all over the city, it was a mistake coming here."

"I already told ya, we ain't got horses nor enough cash to buy one -"

"I know, I know." Rane armed him toward the door. "I'm not proud of it but I can get us a couple. Might as well lean into it if I'm gonna be a criminal. Come on."


	33. Mary Linton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane and Arthur meet someone unexpected on their way out of Saint Denis

_Do I have time? A man of my caliber stood in the street_   
_Like a sleepwalking teenager I know_   
_And I dealt with this years ago_   
_I took a hammer to every memento_   
_But image on image like beads on a rosary_   
_Pulled through my head as the music takes hold_   
_And the sickener hits, I can work till I break_   
_But I love the bones of you that I will never escape._

**\- Elbow**

______________

“Where’s the . . . I dunno, the horse . . . place?”

“The _what_?”

Rane and Arthur were striding down the Saint Denis streets, side by side, their heads on the swivel. Rane waved an impatient hand. She had the beginnings of a headache thumping ominously in her temple and her gait was a trifle unsteady. Christ, why had she taken so many shots?

“The horse place. I dunno what you call it.”

Arthur cast about. “The livery?”

“Sure.” Rane shrugged. “Which way?”

“Just south of here, I think. But I only been there once and that was to sell off a thoroughbred months ago. What are you plannin’ on doin' there with empty pockets?”

“I’m gonna steal a pair. Don’t ask how because if those bastards catch you again I don’t want them to know.”

“How?”

Rane snorted derisively. “I literally, _literally_ just said not to ask me how, Arthur Morgan.”

“You ever known me to be particularly good at listenin’? How you gonna do it?”

Rane sighed, not looking at him. “There’s a curse that can make people do what you want them to do.”

Arthur scoffed. “And why in the fuck didn’t you use that before? I can think of about ten times it’d have come in handy right out of hand, Rane.”

“Because it’s illegal and immoral. Making someone do something they don’t wanna do is super duper wrong. In any decade, not just mine. I’m sure you can see why.”

“Rane, you stabbed a man through the heart not thirty minutes ago.” Arthur was looking askance at her with wry amusement. “Come on, now, that line you’re drawin’ between what’s wrong and what’s right seems to be on the move. Take it from someone who knows, I killed more men than I know how to count.”

“I know you have.” She pointed. “That? Is that it?”

Arthur followed her gaze toward the building she was indicating, the humid air steaming around it. “Yeah, that looks about right.”

“Stay here,” said Rane shortly, touching his shoulder, and strode forward, her long hair rippling behind her, walking into the barn doors without hesitation.

Arthur did, hanging back, watching the doorway and breathing a little quickly, crossing his hands over his chest and leaning against the brick wall. Horseborn men continued to ride past, some of them singing drunkenly, oblivious, the hooves clopping in the mud. He could see the shadows of motion within the building, moving over the hay scattered before the door, but the conversation was lost to him in the din of music and talk around. There were no great flashes of light this time. After a moment Rane emerged again, now leading two horses behind her, a black stallion and a palomino, both tacked and ready to ride and following behind her, docile and relaxed. No one was chasing after her, either.

“Girl, you’re useful as all hell sometimes, I gotta say.”

“I guess.” Rane was climbing limberly onto the black stallion and handed the palomino’s reins to Arthur. “Here, happy birthday and merry Christmas.”

Arthur hoisted himself onto the palomino, coughing hoarsely and grasping the reins.

“You kill anybody else for these?”

Rane cringed a little at those words, her heart cramping. _Anybody else._

“No, just cursed. I’ll lift it as soon as we’re away from the city. You okay?”

“Fine,” Arthur coughed, and kicked the palomino into a trot. “Go on. I’ll show you the way from here.”

  
  


THEY rode to the outskirts of town without any trouble, and as Rane had promised, she turned in the saddle and waved her wand elaborately once they had gotten far enough from the livery. A faint, yellowish light emitted from the tip of it, wavering before her face and igniting her features for a moment before dispersing.

“There. They’re good to go.” She stowed her wand, turning back to the fore, her eyes turned down. “Christ, I’m a terrible person.”

Arthur slapped the palomino’s neck heartily, laughing. “I disagree. This is a good damn horse, and that’s a good stallion under you, too. Looks like a Friesian, as I live and breathe.”

“That’s an Unforgivable Curse,” Rane told him, frowning, ignoring this. “It’s wrong, Arthur.”

“What is it?”

“Imperius. They do whatever you want them to, even if it kills them. Total control, like I said.” Rane sighed. “I’ve done all three now. I’m fucked if they catch me, Arthur, that’s a fact.”

“All you did was ask them to hand over a couple horses.”

“Yeah, and I tortured Colm O’Driscoll and murdered that guy on the Gatling,” Rane objected, low. She held up three fingers, not looking at him. “That’s the whole collection. Murder, control and pain. That’s life in prison or the noose, and I’d deserve it. _Plus_ bushwhacking that auror back there.”

“Well.” Arthur glanced at her from over the bridle. “This ain’t exactly peaceable times. Quit bein’ so hard on yourself.” He lifted his chin toward the stallion between her legs. “What’re ya gonna call him?”

Rane pondered this, stroking the stallion’s withers. “Eli.”

Arthur snorted. “Stupid fuckin’ name.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m only kiddin’ with ya, keep your pants on.” Arthur was laughing, a real, full laugh without any hint of coughing, and Rane grinned a little at it, watching him. He had a lovely smile, even in the semi-darkness of the humid night. It was a smile that reached all the way up into his eyes, turning the corners up into faint crows’ feet and making his gaze positively merry. The sort of smile ladies would fall all over themselves about. She was stricken again by the fact that this man had no idea how handsome he was, and was a touch blown away by it.

She opened her mouth to tell him something to this effect, but she was cut off by another voice.

“ _Arthur_?”

Both Rane and Arthur came to a halt, their steeds snorting. There was a woman, striding out of a shop near the road, her hands clasped before her, staring at Arthur.

Arthur’s voice was a little faint when he spoke. “Mary?”

“Oh, _Arthur_!” The woman - Mary - was rushing forward, and she grasped the bridle of the palomino, looking up at him, her eyes bright in the dark. “Oh, say it’s you!”

“It’s me,” said Arthur. He glanced at Rane, who was watching him carefully, then he hopped down off the horse, his boots thudding on the ground. Mary threw her arms around him at once and planted a big one right on the corner of his mouth. Rane, eyeing this with growing dislike, slid off Eli, striding to the front of him and taking his head in her arms, still watching this as she stroked his forehead. The woman was perhaps a few years older than she, dark-haired and very pretty, with long eyelashes and plush lips and a beauty mark on her cheek to rival Marilyn Monroe’s. Classic, timeless beauty, she was. Arthur was still staring down at her as if he could hardly believe his eyes.

“Mary, what’re you doin’ here?”

“Oh, you know, just daddy.” The woman waved a hand. “Tryin’ to look after him while he gets into mischief, as usual.”

“Well, he was always good at that.”

“Oh, Arthur, stop. What about you, what’re you doin’ in Saint Denis? Oh, I’m so pleased to see ya!” She touched his cheek gently, beaming up at him. “You look good, ya look well.”

Mary leaned up and kissed his cheek again, grasping his hands in hers and looking delighted. Rane noted with dismay the pleased flush that spread over Arthur’s face at this.

“What are ya doin’ here?” Mary asked him again.

“I - well, uh -” Arthur glanced back at Rane, who was leaning against Eli’s withers, feet and arms both crossed in front of her, watching this exchange with one eyebrow cocked. “Well, we had some business here, yeah, but now it’s all done with and we was headed back.”

“Oh?” Mary looked over Arthur’s shoulder, seeming to take note of Rane for the first time. “We?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Mary, this is Rane, she’s my, uh . . .” Arthur struggled, his face reddening. “She’s my uh . . . my, uh -”

Rane strode forward, relieving him. “We work together. Pleasure.”

“Well, it’s nice to make your acquaintance,” said Mary, giving Rane a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Work together, ya said?”

“Yes. Closely.” Rane smiled at her. “Can I assume you two know each other?”

The flush that rose in both their faces was all the answer Rane needed. Her smile dropped off and she glanced alongside at Arthur, who was clearly avoiding her gaze.

“Well, we’re friends of old, is all,” said Arthur.

“Friends, huh?” Rane was abruptly aware that she was still drunk from earlier and reminded herself to mind her tongue. Her tongue had other ideas, naturally. “That’s so weird, because Arthur and I are friends too. Good friends. Great, actually.”

“Oh, that's lovely!” Mary looked at Rane a moment longer, appraising her, then turned back to Arthur. “Well. Well, maybe you can take a night off work, Arthur? Come have supper with me? I’m not too far outside town, you'll remember -”

"Yeah, why don't you take the night off work, Arthur?" Rane agreed. "Go have supper! That sounds super fun."

“Hey.” Arthur looked at her pointedly. “Can we have a second, please?”

Rane met his gaze defiantly for a moment, a coarse turn of words lingering on her lips - _Am I being dismissed?_ \- then turned back to Mary and instead offered her another broad grin.

“Nice to meet you. I’ll be on the edge of town, Arthur Morgan.”

With this she turned in a whirl of hair and mounting Eli trotted him off, leaving them behind her without a glance backwards. Arthur watched her ride off for a moment, Eli’s hooves clopping loud even amidst the music and hollering around them, then gestured to the porch behind them.

“You wanna sit down a sec? I can’t stay too long, but -”

“Well, sure.”

They did, Mary sweeping her skirts beneath her and placing her hands in her lap. Arthur let his hands dangle between his knees, feeling completely out of sorts. He’d never had two women he’d been involved with come face to face and he wasn’t sure he cared much for it. This was his week for new things, that was for sure. He looked over at her, meeting her eyes, hearing the clopping of Eii fading in the distance.

“You doin’ well?” he asked at length.

“Quite, yes.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “How’s what’s his name?”

“Died.” Mary smoothed her dress, not looking at him. “Pneumonia.”

“Aw, hell. I’m sorry to hear that, Mary.”

“Yeah, me too. Me too.” Mary glanced over at Arthur. “You still runnin’ with Dutch and the rest of ‘em?”

“Yeah. Most of ‘em, anyway. Hosea’s dead, just a couple days back.”

Mary clutched her throat, her brow furrowing. “Oh, Lord. Hosea. How’d it happen?”

Arthur shook his head. “Shot down by the law. I guess like most of us will likely be.”

"I'm so very sorry to hear that, Arthur."

"Well, it is what it is. Can't say I won't miss him, though."

A brief silence fell. Mary was looking after Rane, who was visible now as a speck at the end of the cobblestone road, heading for the border of town.

“Your friend seems kinda funny,” she remarked. 

“Yeah, funny’s one word for it.”

“Real pretty, too,” Mary added.

Arthur cleared his throat gruffly. “I guess so.”

Mary snorted. “Oh, you guess so, like you ain’t noticed.”

“Well, what d’ya want me to say? Yeah, she’s real pretty.” Arthur sighed, rubbing his face. “Hell, I can see you ain’t changed much, Mary Linton -”

“Oh, quit.” Mary slapped his arm lightly. “I was only sayin’.” She glanced at him shrewdly, watching his profile. “She ain’t just workin’ with ya, is she?”

Arthur hesitated, wringing his hands, and looked at her briefly. He considered lying, but of course he was no good at it, especially not with this woman.

“No, she ain’t just workin’ with me, Mary.”

Mary looked at him sadly for a moment before speaking again. “You two married?”

“No, no.” Arthur shook his head, uncomfortable. The expression on Mary's face made him feel horribly guilty. “No, I ain’t known her too long. Just a couple weeks."

"You love her?"

Arthur shrugged.

“Hmm.” Mary watched him a moment longer, then got to her feet. “Well, I'm happy for ya, Arthur. Truly I am. I just hope she knows what she's gettin' into."

"What's _that_ 'spose to mean?" said Arthur, getting up himself, his voice rising a touch.

"You know what it means," said Mary steadily. "You're a hard man to love, Arthur Morgan. Trust me, I've tried."

"Oh, hell." Arthur was more stung by this than he cared to admit. "Mary, I was never gonna be good enough for ya, your damned fool of a pa not wantin' me marryin' into the family and all that bickerin' about what it is I do -"

"My pa ain't a fool," said Mary, a little sharply. "And no, he didn't want me tangled up in that gang nonsense. No decent father would. What's _her_ pa think of you, Arthur? Does _he_ know? Does _she_?"

"How do I know what her pa thinks?" said Arthur resentfully. "And yeah, she does know, I told ya, we work together, she ain't the sort of lady to lay around in fancy dresses and piss and moan and not do nothin', she's a fighter -!"

Mary scoffed, looking away. "Yeah, well maybe that suits ya, Arthur."

"It does! It _does_ suit me!" Arthur was angry now. He gestured in the direction Rane had ridden away with one hand. "Y'know, it's _nice_ , not havin' to fleece and lie to somebody about the kinda man I am, it feels nice for someone to want me the way I already am, the way she does. But I guess you wouldn't know nothin' about none of that!"

"Sounds like you _do_ love her to me."

"I reckon I do then, yeah."

Mary's gaze sharpened at these words, injured, and she glared at Arthur, her mouth pulled down into a hurt sneer.

"You couldn't never give that to _me_ , could ya, Arthur? All them empty promises and bein' away for months at a time and -!"

"I tried!" Arthur shouted, grasping her arm roughly. She jerked away from him, taking a step back, her eyes on his. "I _tried_ to, Mary! But you wouldn't never have me! You and your damned father! And worryin' with how folk would look at ya, marryin' an outlaw! That's how you always was! What was I meant to do?"

"Change!" Mary cried, her brow knitted. "You were meant to _change_ , Arthur!"

"Well, I ain't _gonna_ change!" Arthur retorted, just as heatedly. "This is me, Mary, this is who I am! And you know, for a goddamned heavenly wonder, that girl back there likes me just fine the way I already am! Now, how come _you_ could never do that? Seems you just loved the person you wanted me to become, that's all!"

Mary looked at him a long moment, her gaze cool. At length she hitched up her dress and turned away.

"I oughta get going, Arthur. I gotta buy us some things before I get back on home.”

Arthur watched her, feeling a twang of guilt. “Mary -”

“Hush,” Mary touched his cheek again, and now there were tears sparkling in her eyes as she met his gaze. “Go be with your woman, Arthur. She don't like me much, I bet she's waitin' on the edge of town mad as a hornet right now.”

“ _Hey_ -”

“Hush.” Mary grasped his hands in hers briefly. "There ain't nothin' more to say."

Arthur looked into her eyes, frowning, his brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry." Arthur shook his head. "For them things I said. For all of it, Mary. Truly I am. I didn't -"

"I told ya, there ain't nothin' more to say. Go on."

Mary reached up and kissed his cheek one last time, looking up at him.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

Mary released his hands, and with a final glance at him strode into the building, the door shutting behind her. Arthur watched it for a long moment, his brow furrowed, then turning mounted the palomino and kicked it into a canter, following after Rane.

RANE wasn't in immediate evidence when Arthur reached the edge of town, but Eli was. He was standing near the edge of the road, watching Arthur's approach with watchful eyes. Arthur dismounted, approaching him, but he tossed his head, ears pinning back, eyeing him warily, one of his hooves stamping in the dust. It was fairly clear that Arthur was going to get bitten if he got any closer.

"Okay, fine, fine." Arthur lifted his hands, looking around and lifting his voice. "Rane?"

"Here." Rane was striding out of the woods, buckling her belt. "Ten-one."

"Ten-one?"

"Means I had to pee."

"In the trees?"

"What'd you want me to do, find a Burger King?"

" _What_?"

"Never mind." Rane took Eli's head in her arms, stroking his forehead, and planted a gentle kiss on his soft nose. He whickered. " _Tolo anen'nin_ , handsome man."

Eli responded by nibbling at her thigh affectionately, his eyes soft, tail flicking.

Arthur laughed. "That horse don't like me."

Rane eyed him. "Maybe he just doesn't like people who run into their ex girlfriends in public and make it weird, I dunno. Just a guess."

Arthur glanced at Eli, who was still looking at him with mistrust over Rane's shoulder, ears perked, then he sighed, climbing onto the palomino. "Alright, come on, we gotta move."

Rane gave Eli a final pat, then got into the saddle, bringing him around. "Lead the way, sweetheart."

The ride toward Shady Bell was awkward, to say the least. Rane refused to speak - her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, a touch behind Arthur, following him, her fingers winding through Eli's mane and her mouth downturned. The crickets were loud around them. Arthur lit a cigarette, drawing long on it, trying not to look at her.

"Hey, you gonna say somethin' eventually?" Arthur said at last, a little more loudly than he'd intended, unable to stand the tense silence any longer.

"Like what?" said Rane, low. Her fingers were winding idly through Eli's mane, her gaze ahead.

"Like about what happened back there with Mary. What the hell you think? I'm feelin' a little bit anxious about it, if we're bein' honest."

"What do I _think_?" Rane glanced sidelong at Arthur. "That's what you wanna know?"

"Yeah. No. I dunno. At least _talk_ to me." Arthur eyed her, uneasy. "Please. I don't like it when you're quiet this way."

Rane snorted, very aware of how much she'd had to drink and not caring. "Well, let me think. Kind of a Scheherazade feel about her, that one, like she could have you hanging on her every word, for starters." Rane's eyes met his, hard and grimly humorous and quite drunk. "And that beauty mark, _Christ_ , give me room to breathe. At least I know you have a thing for chicks with dark hair now." 

Arthur looked pained. "Listen, I didn't know she was gonna turn up like that. It was just bad luck. I was feelin' as awkward about it as you was."

"So who is she?"

Arthur broke into a trot, not meeting her eyes. Rane watched his profile, the wind teasing his dirty blonde hair, the long muscles of his forearms bunching as he grasped the reins.

"Mary Linton."

"Yeah, no, I got that part. I think you know what I'm asking."

"Me and her were . . ." Arthur sighed, running a hand over his face roughly, looking irritated. "Why you gotta make me say it, huh? We were . . . we were _involved_ , years ago. Okay? That good enough for ya?"

Rane said nothing, only watched the road, her forehead furrowed. She looked indignant, her brows low over her eyes and a little lilt in the corner of her mouth, tending toward a sneer, bringing the corner of her nose a little higher and baring a touch of her teeth. It was a look of resentment, of revulsion, and Arthur hated it at once.

"Hey, look, you asked," said Arthur, feeling out of sorts, looking at her.

"You never told me about her before."

Arthur scoffed, his brow furrowing, glaring over at her.

"Yeah, well what chance have I had?"

Rane looked at him, meeting his gaze, and Arthur was a little dismayed to see the hurt in her eyes, and the anger. He felt a flash of resentment.

"You know, I had to listen to you talkin' about Sirius and I didn't get funny about it -"

Rane laughed. "Yes you _did_ , Arthur! You got _super_ funny about it! You already forget?"

"I don't understand why you're so damn jealous, Rane -"

"I'm not the only one."

Arthur fell silent, scowling.

"So what happened?"

"That's none of your business."

"Oh?" Rane pulled Eli closer to Arthur's palomino, making her snort and stamp. Arthur struggled with the reins. "What exactly do you think isn't my business these days, Arthur? I've laid my soul bare for you more times than I can count."

"Why is it you think my business is your business now, exactly?"

"Because you said we were together, and that's how these things work, usually."

"This is different, and I don't like to talk about it." Arthur guided the palomino away from her, glaring across the horse's mane at Rane. "I don't like to talk about it. That ought to be enough. And you been drinkin' like the shanty damn Irish tonight, you ought not even be askin' about this right now unless you wanna get both of us upset -"

"Kinda like I don't like to talk about Sirius? But I did anyways, because you asked me over and over and over again? Like that, sort of? Or is this different?"

Arthur pointed to the right. "We're goin' West. Follow this road. It'll take us to Shady Belle."

Rane guided Eli toward his lead, but she was still watching him, her eyes bright beneath her brows.

"Arthur, I'm way too drunk to let this go, you might as well just -"

"FINE! _FINE_! WHAT EXACTLY IS IT YOU WANNA KNOW?" Arthur yelled at Rane suddenly, pulling the palomino to a halt and throwing his hands up. Eli stamped to a standstill as well, tossing his head. "THAT I LOVED HER? THAT WHAT YOU WANNA HEAR?"

Rane said nothing, watching him, her face quite still. Arthur was glaring at Rane, his eyes bright. His voice was loud on the abandoned street, echoing off the sparse trees around them, drowning out the crickets. The chickens pecking at the dirt on the side of the road scattered at the sound of it, clucking.

"I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU LIKE IT WHEN I SAY THINGS THAT HURT YOU, RANE, I TRULY DON'T! SHE WOULDN'T MARRY ME BECAUSE OF WHAT I DO! IF SHE HAD, YOU'D NEVER HAVE MET ME! OKAY?"

"Okay." Rane's voice was low and emotionless. She pulled Eli around, her fists tight on the bridle, and Arthur was dismayed to see tears standing in her eyes. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking at the dirt, her brows descended and her long hair hanging in her face. "Fine. That's what I wanted to hear. Let's go."

"Rane, you're drunk," said Arthur, looking after her, his brow furrowed, his heart beating hard, confused and annoyed to find himself so. "You're just drunk, you had about fifteen damn shots in that bar back there. Quit bein' this way. Please."

Rane lifted her chin, acknowledging this silently. When she finally spoke, her voice was thick and defeated.

"Okay. Just show me the way to the place."

Arthur did. They came upon the camp after another ten minutes' ride. It was clearly abandoned, the front devoid of horses, though there were hoof prints. Rane slid off Eli, pointing her wand at the building. She was still crying a little, and Arthur felt like the biggest asshole in the world for not knowing how to stop it. She was quiet about it - he had the feeling that she was quiet about everything that had anything to do with her emotions - but he wasn't stupid and he saw the way her eyebrows were turned down, and the way her breath hitched, and the way she swiped surreptitiously at her eyes with her sleeve, always turning her face away from him when she did it. She was drunk, sure, that made anyone more emotional, but it still broke his heart, seeing her that way, with her brow furrowed and her glistening eyes fastened on an obscure point on the horizon. Arthur wasn't great with women at the best of times - another thing Mary Linton could attest to, as well as countless other drunken saloon girls - and he had no idea how to approach her in a state like this without fucking it all up even worse.

"I'll go look," said Arthur, hopping down from the palomino.

"Don't bother," said Rane, tying Eli to the hitching post at the side of the drive. Her eyes were still damp, her voice soft, and Arthur didn't want to go against her at that very moment. It hurt his heart too much to see her that way. "Stay right there."

Arthur remained next to the palomino, patting her shoulder gently. Rane aimed her wand at the building, the wind teasing the ends of her long hair.

" _Homenum revelio_!"

She stood where she was for a moment, the wind breathing over her, looking lean and lovely in the night with her dark brows and full lips and cool gaze. She lowered her wand at last, glancing back at Arthur. Her eyes were still red.

"Nobody." Rane gestured. "Let's go look."

They did. Arthur followed her, watching her long back, her hair wavering in the wind, and once they entered the foyer he could take it no more. He grasped her arm, pressing her against the wall, drawing near her and placing his other hand against the wall beside her head, looking down at her. Rane bore this mildly, almost lazily, not resisting, her eyes on the floor. The haze of whiskey was formidable so close to her, and Arthur realized she was far drunker than he'd thought.

"Just us here?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Are you gonna tell me why you're cryin'?"

"I'm not crying," she said, her voice low.

"Yeah, you are."

"Let me up. Let's check upstairs, just to make sure." Rane broke free of his grasp, ducking beneath his arm, and was striding away before he could argue. Arthur followed her.

Their boots were loud and hollow on the steps, and Rane found an abandoned room. It was clearly uninhabited; there was nothing inside but a cot, adorned with scant blankets, and the window was broken in several places. The wood was ancient and creaked beneath their footsteps. Arthur shut the door behind them, and Rane glanced at him.

"We haven't even checked the other rooms yet."

"You say there's nobody here, there's nobody here. I'm prepared to take your word on it. Wherever the rest of 'em got up and ran off to, I'm sure I don't know, but they ain't here."

Arthur strode toward her and placed both hands on her cheeks. Her eyes met his reluctantly, still damp.

"Why are you crying?" he asked her again, his voice gentle.

She shook her head.

"I don't know." She laughed grimly. "I think I'm just drunk."

"Is it about Mary?"

Rane looked ashamed, dropping her gaze. Arthur tipped her chin back up.

"I love you more than I ever loved her, Rane." Arthur laughed, low. "Just don't tell her that, that ain't a conversation I wanna have."

"You've known me for a week and a half."

"What, so is there a time constraint on this kind of shit? Guess I musta missed that one in the ol' rule book."

Rane pursed her lips, shrugging. "Maybe you just like to look at me."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow at her. "You think you're pretty enough for that, huh?"

"You don't?"

Arthur hesitated a little at this, uncertain. "I . . . well, do _you_?"

Rane shrugged again, looking at him brashly despite the tears standing in her eyes. "Not particularly, no, but most men seem to."

"You don't think you're pretty." Arthur couldn't conceal a touch of surprise. "You seen yourself lately, Rane? Shit, you're beautiful. That ain't even the right word for what you are."

Rane shook her head, smiling grimly. "See what I mean?"

"I didn't mean it that way."

"Well, when you spend a lot of time with yourself and see all the horrible little things you're willing to do to survive, your self esteem tends to decline." She laughed, low, the sound almost a sob. "People think with their sex instead of their brain all the fucking time and it grosses me out, quite frankly. Should you, too, matter of fact."

"You're waxin' poetic with a belly full of whiskey and you sound goddamned ridiculous," Arthur remarked dryly. "You think that's how I am? You made eyes at me and you got me? Like I'm a dog and you're a piece of meat?"

Rane stepped closer to him, watching his gaze, her eyes damp and defiant. "You gonna tell me you pulled me against you in that cave back there for some other reason? Go on, lie to me. I'll pretend to believe you."

"No." Arthur inclined his head, smiling a little. "Well, I mean, I _do_ like lookin' at ya, yeah, but . . . that ain't why I'm always botherin' with this. And that ain't why I pulled ya in that time, neither. I did it because you were good, and I liked ya, I liked the way you carried yourself. The way you worked, the way you talked. It ain't all just about what you look like."

Rane sighed roughly, wiping at her eyes. "Sounds like horseshit."

"I fell in love with you while we were ridin' back to camp," said Arthur, and tilted her chin up again, meeting her gaze. "On the ride back. I felt it comin' a while before, but that was when it happened."

Rane snorted. "Not when you were balls deep?"

"No, no. When you were ridin' behind me and you put your head against my back. Sorta rested against me. Your arms were around my waist and then I felt you lean on me. I was all finished up right then, Rane. And there ain't a soul alive besides you I'd ever say that to."

Rane met his eyes, surprised. "What?"

Arthur shrugged. "I wasn't lookin' at ya when it happened, Rane. Maybe that oughta say somethin'. Not all men are made the same."

"Sounds made up." Rane tried to move away from him and he grasped her wrist.

"You're drunk talking." Arthur shook her gently, looking down at her. "Rane, I love you. More than I love my own goddamned life. My heart is yours. You hear me?"

Rane sobbed abruptly, the sound sudden and shocking in contrast with her calm facade, leaning forward, her hair falling in her face. Arthur took her face in his hands, brushing her hair away.

"Will you come lay with me?"

"Okay."

"Get undressed for me."

"There's that dude talk again."

"I just don't want your horse-smellin' shirt in bed with me, is all. You stink like Eli."

Rane scoffed. "Fine."

He took his shirt off, the moonlight streaming in, setting fire to the fine hairs on his chest. Rane pulled hers off too, unbuckling her belt and throwing her sword onto the floor, letting her jeans fall off her hips. The air was cool on her skin. She climbed into bed with him, and he threw the blanket around her, placing his arms around her from behind and pressing his body into hers. He was warm and pulsing, his hands exploring her, from throat to thigh, his palm pushing against her flesh. His breath was warm and quick against her neck, his heart pounding hard against her shoulder. She could feel the firmness of him on her back. He had pulled himself out of his jeans and was pressing himself against her skin, panting.

"Arthur -"

"You don't want me?" Arthur's voice was close to her ear, warm. He began to draw away from her. "Sorry, I can't help it when you're naked like this, Rane."

"After all that shit I said, you're gonna do that."

"You don't want me right now?"

Rane swung on top of him, straddling him, and in a smooth motion placed him in her, squeezing her thighs against his. Arthur sighed roughly, surprised, flexing beneath her. Rane was drunk, and his face wavered beneath her. She grasped his firm shoulders, watching him, her long hair in her face.

"You aren't gonna leave me for her?" she asked, her voice lilting, and shifted her hips. Arthur's head fell back, his face lax with pleasure, eyes roving helplessly on her nude torso, his hands running over her chest, lingering on her breasts.

"Oh, honey, if you asked me to kill my kin with me in you that way I'd probably say yes."

Rane leaned back, pulling him out of her, one hand wrapped around him. Arthur gasped lightly, looking up at her.

"You scare me when you say things like that," she said softly.

"I ain't gonna leave you." Arthur took himself in one fist, replacing her grasp, and the other went to the center of her chest, pressing over her breastbone, his palm warm and rough. "I ain't gonna leave you ever, Rane. You get rid of me by takin' off or nothin'."

"Why do you always touch me there?" Rane grasped his hand and moved it to her right breast. "Most guys like this place better."

Arthur drew his hand away, placing it in the center of her chest again. "I like to feel your heart."

"Why?" Rane asked, genuinely curious.

"I dunno." Arthur leaned up, kissing her mouth gently, then leaned back onto the pillow, looking up at her. "I like to know you're real, I guess. That you're alive. Sometimes I ain't sure, but then I feel your heart beating and I remember you are." He laughed, looking a trifle embarrassed. "Feels foolish to say."

"You should direct Robert Pattinson movies with talk like that."

"I don't know what that means." Arthur moved the hand on the center of her chest to her cheek, looking at her eyes. "You know I love you."

"Yeah." Rane lowered herself onto him again, watching the way his face relaxed into ecstasy. "I love you, too."

She moved over him, slow and wordless, her mouth hovering before his, until she felt his breath quicken and he came, his hips tensing against hers, grasping her thighs. Then she relaxed, letting the dizziness of too much whiskey fall over her like a pall, relaxing her legs against his and kissing him, feeling his heartbeat quick against her chest. His hands moved over her back and through her hair, making no move to remove himself from inside her, panting, his breath hot and fragrant against her throat, his blue eyes on hers. She felt his hand lingering over her chest again, and she smiled a little, relishing the sensation of his breath against her neck, feeling his eyes roving over her body.

"Is it fast?" she asked, smiling a little.

Arthur laughed, low. "You know what I'm doin'?"

"You gave yourself away earlier, my guy."

"You mind?"

Rane shook her head. "No."

She leaned over and kissed him gently, her mouth tasting of old whiskey but still sweet. Arthur leaned back, looking down at her.

"Would you marry me?" he said suddenly.

Rane sat up, looking down at him, watching his face. He looked terrified, and surprised at himself.

" _What_ did you say?" she said at last, faint. The crickets were loud outside.

"You heard it right."

"Are you sober, Arthur?"

"Very," he said.

"Is that a question or a proposal? Or you just don't wanna go hat in hand with me right now either way?"

Arthur hesitated. "I dunno."

"Then it's a question." Rane watched his eyes, her own glimmering in the dim light as they lay in bed, the crickets loud outside. "Would I? If you asked? Right this second, probably, yeah."

"Because you're drunk."

"Yeah. But I think that even if I wasn't, the answer would probably be pretty much the same."

Arthur nodded slowly, chewing his lip, a smile spreading across his face that he was clearly trying to suppress. "That's good to know."

"You wanna marry _me_?"

Arthur watched her closely. "If I said yes, what would you think?"

Rane laughed, low. "That you were batshit crazy, for starters, I'm a shitshow."

"Then I guess I'm batshit crazy." Arthur was eyeing her guardedly, nervous. "Will you?"

Rane laughed again, her voice very low, but she could feel the threat of tears behind her eyes, wanting to spill over her cheeks. She leaned against the wall next to the bed, looking at him. He was just sitting there, naked as the day he was born and just as vulnerable, watching her face anxiously, both hands clasped in his lap, his eyes blue and bright in the low light.

"Will you?" he asked again, quiet.

Rane looked at him, very still, saying nothing.

"You've known me for -"

"I know how long I've known you for." Arthur met her eyes, grave. "It don't change nothin'."

"Are you asking me to marry you?"

Arthur sighed. "Yeah. That's what I'm doin'."

"You're proposing to me. Even after how I acted tonight."

Arthur nodded. "Yeah." He shook his head. "I don't have a ring, Rane, but I'm askin' ya anyways. I'll find one."

Rane watched him for a long moment, her eyes bright beneath her knitted brows, then abruptly burst into tears, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shuddering, nude and exposed and utterly helpless, the muscles in her torso flexing and her voice coarse and childlike in her throat. Arthur hesitated, startled, then reaching forth wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to his chest.

"Arthur, don't say that," she gasped against him. "Don't say that to me."

"Why are you talkin' like that?" Arthur looked down at her, his heart cramping in his chest. "Is that a no?"

Rane bowed her head, looking utterly broken, still weeping, her face screwed up with it. Arthur took her shoulders, shaking her gently.

"Hey, look, I know Sirius never asked ya, but I'm an outlaw too, and _I'm_ askin'. Okay? You don't have to say yes, but . . . . but I think you should know I wanna. At least you oughta know. Okay?"

Rane dissolved into tears again, her long hair falling around her face, both hands going to her neck, and Arthur took her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close, his palms firm against her nude shoulderblades.

"I would," Rane whispered against his chest. "I would, Arthur."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yeah."

"So you're my fiancee now, then." Arthur squeezed her to his body tightly. "You ever been somebody's fiancee before?"

"No," Rane choked.

"Well, now you are. Strike that off the list along with gettin' shot, honey." He squeezed her tightly in his arms. "I love ya, girl, so damn much. Hush, now. Quit bein' sad and be happy. That's what folks generally do in these situations."

Rane responded to this with a hoarse sob, her face buried in his shoulder. Arthur held her to him, silent, letting her cry softly against his chest, his eyes on the ceiling, his hair in his eyes.


	34. Riding to Lagras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Rane find leavings from the gang and head off to locate their whereabouts, speaking on Arthur's proposal the evening prior as they go.

_We are living this suicide_   
_If god looked upon us_   
_It would surely leave us blind._

**\- Dax Riggs**

_______________

When Arthur woke, Rane wasn’t by his side. He sat up, looking around for her, snatching his jeans off the floor and yanking them up, his belt buckle jangling.

“Rane? _Rane_.”

He thundered down the stairs, the wood creaking beneath his boots, looking around the main room. She wasn’t in evidence here, either; the room was musty and stale and quite deserted.

“RANE!” he bellowed, buttoning his shirt.

“OUTSIDE!” a voice came faintly. Arthur went to the door, sighing, and yanked it open, allowing the screen to slam shut behind him, trotting down the steps and looking around.

He didn’t see her right away. Eli and his palomino mare were still hitched, their ears swiveling toward his shouts. Then he heard the water moving and made for the dock, already shaking his head.

“Girl, I _know_ you ain’t in that bayou.”

She was evident right away only by her face and the tips of her toes, naked as the day she was born, floating face-up in the brackish water, her hair clouding beneath her and her hands floating at her sides. It was a lovely morning; the sky was clear, the sunlight glittering off the surface, blindingly bright. The cicadas were loud in the trees above.

Rane tipped him a little salute, her skin shining with moisture.

“ _Buenos dias, mi corazón_.”

“You know there's alligators in there, right?” said Arthur. He stood on the dock, folding his arms across his chest. “Big ones. Bigger than me.”

Rane lifted one finger, still floating idly, and pointed aft. “Actually,” she said, “there’s _one_ alligator, _singular_ , and he’s all the way over there on the other end. I checked.”

“Just ‘cuz ya can’t see ‘em -”

“Magic.” Rane sounded amused.

“Fine, well what about snakes?”

"Not too scared of snakes, on account I'm not eight."

"Well you might find you feel a little differently when a cottonmouth bites you on the asscheek."

Rane laughed. “Lay _off_ , sheesh, I’m filthy, I smell like horse and I wanted a bath. I feel like the plumbing inside probably isn’t up to code.”

“Well alright, miss lady, you had your bath so get on outta there.” Arthur beckoned, looking long-suffering. “Come on. What if Bill or Susan or somebody had shown up, you out here in your birthday suit? Shit, Sean would drop dead of a heart attack right then and there.”

“I found something that might interest you.” Rane was letting her legs sink into the water, ignoring this and wading toward shore, her feet kicking up clouds of mud at her heels and her long hair clinging to her cheeks. “Inside. We didn’t look around hard enough, apparently.”

"Well, we didn't look around hardly at all." Arthur gestured to her chest as she climbed onto the bank. “That’s lookin’ better.”

Rane glanced down her chin at herself and ran her fingers over the long, ugly scar where Limdur’s blade had pierced her. It wasn’t pretty; the spell she'd used worked gradually after the initial effect, and it did nothing at all for aesthetics - as Arthur could corroborate with the broad spiral-shaped scar he bore on his shoulder - but it had healed up fairly well, all things considered. She had no doubt she would wear it the rest of her life; Topley had been right not to bet on that much.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Rane snatched her jeans from the dock and hopped into them awkwardly. "I think it's kinda cool, might make a good conversation starter."

Arthur snorted. "Yeah, well I hope the only conversation you're startin' about that scar is with me, miss, it's sorta in a particular spot."

“Come on.” Rane brushed past him, pulling her shirt over her head and wringing her hair out. “I’ll show you what I found.”

FIVE minutes later found them standing around the scuffed table in the makeshift dining room, Rane taking care to step around the broken glass and schmutz littering the floor with distaste.

“Here.” She snatched up a letter that had been lying on the table, folded thrice, and handed it to Arthur. “Read it, maybe you can make sense of it.”

Arthur did, opening it, his eyes scanning over it, mouthing silently as he read. Rane brushed off a spot on the table and hopped limberly onto it, swinging her feet, hands on the edge, watching him.

“Who’s Tacitus?”

Arthur shook his head. “Just some name we came up with in case we need to send mail or somethin’.” He folded the letter and stuffed it into his breast pocket, looking pensive. “I guess we gotta head to Lagras.”

“You think it’s really from them?”

“Oh, I know it is.” Arthur leaned against the table at her side, shoulder hunching. “That’s Sadie’s handwriting. They musta known we’d come back here lookin’ for ‘em first.”

“Where’s Lagras?”

“North. Not far. I only been once or twice before but I believe I know where they musta gone, there’s a little hideout on the water.” Arthur rubbed his neck. “I just hope they’re all okay.”

“Wonder if John is still locked up.”

“If he ain’t, it’s because he’s hung,” said Arthur. Rane glanced at him, alarmed.

“ _Hung_? For _what_?”

“The hell you think?” Arthur got up, beckoning. “Come on, let’s get going.”

  
  


THE good weather didn’t hold much longer. As Rane and Arthur cantered their horses north, rain clouds began to gather, rolling over the sun, dark and forbidding. Rane watched them with a vague unease, her brow knit a little, squinting against the fat beams of light that streamed through the gaps. Eli was picking up on her anxiety, Rane noticed; his ears were swiveling backwards toward her, snorting, his gait becoming a little prancing. He was turning out to be as intuitive a horse as Rane had ever known.

“Why the hell are you so nervous?” Arthur asked, glancing at her sagaciously. Rane smiled a little. Eli wasn’t the only intuitive one around here.

She shrugged. “I dunno. Just a feeling. Sometimes I get them, it’s my dad’s side of the family.”

“Not because of last night?” Arthur’s voice sounded deceptively light.

Rane looked at him sharply, suddenly remembering their conversation the evening prior. The faint tinge of anxiety lingering in her chest like a candleflame seemed to spread into a full-scale grassfire, chilling her palms and jostling her heartbeat from a gentle saunter into a gallop. She had forgotten, completely, what they’d spoken about, probably thanks to way too much booze.

And on the heels of this came the faint humiliation any seasoned drinker would have recognized. The memories began to emerge, murky and stuttering. She’d started getting all misty-eyed after goading Arthur into shouting at her ( _I don’t know why you like it when I say things that hurt you_ , he had said, a fair enough question), and then she’d blubbered the whole damn way to Shady Belle, scrubbing tears off her cheeks like some teenager scorned by her prom date. She wasn’t a crying woman, had never been, but in the last two weeks she’d done it more times than she could excuse. She was drinking almost as much as she had the year Albus Dumbledore had died. A bad habit that had followed her across nine decades in the wrong direction. AA would have had a field day with that sort of similitude.

“See, now I don’t like that look on your face too much.” Arthur was watching her, looking disquieted.

“I forgot about all of it,” Rane admitted to him, glancing at him guiltily. “Arthur, I’m sorry for how I acted last night, I had way too much to drink. I had no right to grill you about Mary like that and get all leaky and pissy about it, that’s none of my -”

“Fuck Mary,” muttered Arthur. He was still looking at her with that same unnerved expression, his fists white-knuckled on the reins. “That ain’t the part I'm worried about.”

Rane turned her gaze away from him, her heart still beating hard in her chest. Her face felt far too warm, her palms clammy and slippery with sweat against the bridle. Arthur looked at her from his saddle, helpless to avert his eyes and try to appear calm, his expression going from disquieted to hurt, waiting as long as he could stand. She continued to say nothing, rocking back and forth on Eli’s back, her face pale and a sheen of sweat beading on her hairline. He could see a pulse beating rapidly in her throat.

“Rane."

"Yeah?" Rane still wasn't looking at him.

"What d'you remember?"

Rane sighed, but still didn't answer. Arthur shifted in his saddle, his heartbeat picking up, feeling a cold swoop of dread in his stomach.

"Rane, I asked you to marry me last night and you said yes. You remember that?”

Rane nodded, still not looking at him. Arthur scoffed.

“Well, did you mean it or not? Because I asked you if you did and you said yes.”

“Arthur, I love you, but I was _shitfaced_ ,” said Rane, turning to him at last.

" _What_?" Arthur looked at her, his brow knit, frowning. His heart was hammering madly now, and the low panic in his belly had become suddenly and nauseatingly large. He could have leaned over the brush at the side of the road and vomited his guts out with absolutely no hesitation in that moment. "Rane, _what_ -?"

“This has all been a little bit meteoric, Arthur, I'm sure you can agree.”

“Oh, Rane.” Arthur shook his head, laughing grimly and turning from her. Rane looked at his profile, anxious. “Rane, Rane, Rane.”

“Look, I’m not saying no, Arthur, I just -!”

“Nah. I think I had just about enough of you.” Arthur snapped the reins and the palomino broke into a canter.

“Arthur, _wait_!” Rane watched him, feeling a cramp of guilt. “Look, that’s a _huge_ conversation to have when one of us is wasted -!”

“Well, I’ll make a decision for both of us, then, since you ain't capable of it,” said Arthur, not looking at her.

Rane pulled Eli to a stop, getting off of him a little awkwardly, stumbling in the dust, her boots chasing up little puffs. Her mouth was turned down, her face lax with misery.

“Arthur, _hang on a minute_! _STOP_!”

He pulled the palomino into a circle, facing her, not dismounting, and Rane was completely undone by the hurt in his eyes as he met her gaze, his mouth curled into an injured sneer, showing his teeth. When he spoke, his voice was low, hissing and vitriolic. He aimed a trembling finger at her.

“ _Fuck_ you, Rane.”

Rane recoiled. “ _What_ did you say to me?”

“I think your ears work just fine.” Arthur pulled the horse around, moving ahead on the road. “Mount up and follow me to Lagras. I don’t wanna hear nothin’ else out of you, this is done.”

Rane remained in the dust, staring after him, her breath rapid. “What do you mean, _done_?”

"You know damn well what I mean by it." Arthur was starting away.

"No, enlighten me, Arthur," Rane said loudly, her temper flaring a little, still standing next to Eli.

“All your fleecing and cozening and bullshit and that John nonsense and all the rest, I’m through with it, I want this finished and put to bed. Don’t you presume to jerk me around no more.” Arthur didn’t turn as he spoke. “We work together, that’s it. Got a problem with that, find another gang to run with.”

Rane watched him for a moment longer, rising anger flashing in her eyes, then lifted her voice. “HIRIL VUIN, DARO!”

The palomino beneath Arthur halted at once, stamping, turning toward Rane, her tail rippling about her as she did. Arthur yanked on the reins, spurring her rigorously, but she ignored him, her eyes fixed on Rane and her ears tilted forward.

“Come on, dammit, _get_ -!”

“TOLO A’NIN!” Rane commanded loudly, and to Arthur’s dismay the horse began to trot toward Rane, her ears laid back, still quite oblivious to Arthur’s commands. She reached Rane, who took her bridle, pushed back an awkward step as the palomino nuzzled her. Arthur met her belligerent gaze from the saddle with his own.

“Quit fuckin' around with my horse and let me go.”

“No.” Rane glared up at him, the palomino's head still pressed to her chest affectionately. “I said yes and I meant it. If you’d have given me five seconds to explain myself I’d have said that. Instead you try to cut me loose again. So I guess maybe we need to talk about it.”

Arthur tried to pull the horse away again and Rane jerked the bridle once more toward her, rough, her angry eyes on his.

“Let _go_ , Rane.”

"No."

"If I gotta get down off this horse I'm gonna be pissed as hell, goddammit. Now let 'er go."

“No.” She stared at him defiantly. “You wanna marry me? I said yes.”

Arthur, still tugging at the bridle uselessly, scowling: “Didn’t sound much like a yes to me, Rane. Matter of fact, sounded like you were just ashamed of something foolish you said to some goddamned idiot while you were in your cups, that's what I -”

“Arthur, you get so goddamned _defensive_!” Rane remarked, exasperated. “About _everything_! Why _is_ that? Huh? If you’d have given me thirty more seconds I could have collected my thoughts and told you how I felt, but instead you get pissed off and try to pull that same shit you did on the beach after Hostas! Your first reaction to anything not going your way with this is to try and make a run for it, you ever notice that? What the fuck am I supposed to think about that, you over here two-stepping with leaving me and staying around?”

“Christ.” Arthur gave up and slid off the palomino, fumbling his pack of smokes from his breast pocket irritably. “If I ain’t in bed with ya I’m fightin’ with ya, Rane, we're worse than John and Abigail. Maybe we ain’t such a good match after all.”

Rane watched him light his cigarette, frowning at him, shoving the palomino’s head gently away from her as she tried to nuzzle her again.

“You’re so damned scared of this it’s ridiculous, Arthur. I never took you for a cowardly guy.”

“Yeah, well I guess we were both wrong about each other, then,” Arthur muttered coldly, blowing twin jets of smoke from his nostrils and glaring at her.

“The difference is that when you get freaked out, you try to light out for the territories right off the bat. Surely you can see why that worries me, especially after last night.”

“I try to light out because I see that same look in _your_ eyes!” Arthur snapped. “You think I’m stupid or somethin’? You’re as scared of me as I am of you and just as ready to run away! Now, this ain't all on me, Rane Roth, you know that damn good and well! Shit, sometimes I wonder if you'll still be around when I wake up in the morning, or if you'd just -” He gestured. "Just hopped onto Eli and rode off or -!"

Rane strode forward, pulling the cigarette from his lips and flicking it aside, then threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him hard. He resisted a little at first, stiffening, trying to push her away, but she would not go, and he fell into her after a moment, running his fingers through her hair, his breath quick against her mouth and his beard rough on her skin. Rane pulled back, placing her hands on his neck, looking at him.

“Do you really want to marry me or not?”

Arthur nodded, and placed both hands on her cheeks, kissing her forehead, his eyes closed.

“Yeah, God help me, I do.”

“Then I said yes. Stop being so flighty. You’re like a rabbit taking off every time the wind blows in the other direction. You've been riding too long with Dutch, with him flipping around from one thing to another. Not everyone is like that.”

Arthur sighed, running his fingers through his hair restively. “I dunno, I guess this is just new for me. I’m feelin’ my way blind.”

“I know, but you need to learn how to talk to me, and how to trust me a little bit. What you asked last night, it’s not just no big deal for me. And I'm sorry I was so drunk, when you asked,” she added a touch ruefully. "I shouldn't have slammed those shots like that -"

"Goddamned right, you shouldn't have, you drank me clean under the table -"

"- I know, but I was just freaked out. It doesn't matter. Just . . . please." Rane reached out and took Arthur's hand in hers. "Trust me. I'm not going anywhere."

Arthur leaned back, looking at her. “I’ll try.”

“You will,” Rane agreed, watching his eyes. “That’s right."

“Alright.”

“We have bigger things to worry about right now.” Rane touched his chest. “This? Us? This is solid. But the rest of this shit isn’t. John is in trouble. The rest of them too. We don't even know where Dutch is. So let’s go find your family and get this shit straightened out, what do you say?”

“Our.” Arthur broke away from her, mounting his palomino.

“What?”

“ _Our_ family. Not mine.”

Rane watched him for a moment, frowning. Arthur looked down at her wryly.

“Don’t shanghai my horse again, girl. That ain't very polite.”

“I won’t if you don’t make me.” Rane was climbing onto Eli, smirking a little.

Arthur snorted. “Man, I hate ridin’ with you sometimes. Come on.”

  
  



	35. Lagras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane and Arthur discover the rest of their companions hiding out, post-Pinkerton assault. There are casualties, and Rane is determined to understand what the reason for Dutch's behavior is, by any means necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some liberties with a few of the more notable casualties of the Van der Linde gang. Forgive me, I beg of you.

_The nights are so lonely_   
_The days are so long_   
_I'm in the jailhouse_   
_Cause they say I've done wrong_   
_I don't say I'm sorry_   
_I just say I'm sore_   
_The reason I'm goin'_   
_Is blood on the floor_

**\- Fleetwood Mac**

______________

When Arthur and Rane finally rode up to Lagras toward the end of the day, it was raining steadily and the sun had set. It was further away than Rane had been led to believe, certainly, and their conversation had been quite colorful on the way there. Arthur, once his initial unease had passed from him, had breached the subject of marriage again with her.

“You know how it works?”

Rane shook her head, not bothering to pretend that she didn’t know what he meant.

“Nothin’?”

“I dunno. People get dressed up and some guy reads from the Bible or something, right?”

"That's it? That's all you know?"

“We have to do it in front of the law or God or something, right?” said Rane, sounding a trifle sardonic.

Arthur laughed, low. “Tell me how it worked where you’re from.”

Rane laughed, too. “I have no idea. I think you sit in front of a judge or something and he says that’s that, right?”

“No, it ain’t a judge, you damned idiot.” Arthur was laughing too. His demeanor had improved considerably in the few hours they’d been riding together, discussing this. “It’s a priest, a minister. That ain’t the same thing as a judge. I thought you went to school?”

“Where do we find one of those?”

“I know one,” said Arthur, smirking and rubbing his chin.

“ _You_ know a minister?” Rane’s voice was faintly skeptical.

“I know a reverend, matter of fact.”

“Huh.” Rane faced ahead again, smiling a little. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Absolutely not.”

“When do you plan on doing this, exactly?”

"Quick as I can, before you come to your senses." He pointed ahead through the growing rainfall. “There, see them lights?”

Rane nodded. She’d spotted them a ways back.

“That’s the hideout I was tellin’ you about.”

Rane lifted her head, sampling the air through the rain. “You smell that?”

“Gunsmoke.” Arthur sighed. “We might be in for a fight, so stay quiet when we get close.”

“There’s no need, I can tell you right now that there’s not gonna be any fight,” said Rane frankly.

“Why you say?”

“Because there are bodies on the ground,” said Rane. “Whatever happened, we missed it already.”

Arthur looked over at her, a little alarmed. “Shit. You sure?”

“Yup.”

"Our people?"

Rane squinted. "Tough to say."

Despite this assertion, they drew near to the little shack on high alert, Arthur with a hand resting lightly on the butt of his gun, the rain falling steadily around them now and running off the brim of his hat. It was just that - a shack, no threadbare, ivy-strung, crumbling mansion like Shady Belle - and Rane found herself wondering why the rest of them would have chosen such a place to flee to. It was surrounded by oaks hung with Spanish moss, tapering into an ancient wooden dock overlooking the little marsh. There were a handful of bullet holes in the wood siding and the pungent stink of gunsmoke hung heavier here.

“Pinkertons,” said Arthur, low, eyeing the dead men on the ground around them. “Same boys that picked you up that night. Wonder if they ran everybody outta Shady Belle, too.”

They dismounted, boots splashing in the muddy grass, but before they could take another step a loud voice rang out.

“THAT’S FAR ENOUGH, NOW!”

Arthur and Rane both lifted their hands at once, striding around the horses. Sadie Adler was coming out of the building, both revolvers aimed at these newcomers, squinting through the rain at them warily.

“Put your damn guns down, Sadie, it’s just us!”

Sadie’s guns faltered. “ _Arthur_?”

Pearson was striding out of the door now too, eyes wide. “Hey, it’s Arthur! Arthur’s back!”

There was a clamor inside as Rane and Arthur strode closer. Sadie holstered both her guns, her face breaking into a broad grin, beckoning.

“Well, get in here, you damn fools, it’s rainin’!”

It was crowded inside the shack, almost shoulder to shoulder, and Arthur was desperately relieved to see so many of them safe and whole. And they were clearly happy to see him too; hands were reaching out, patting him on the back genially, and both Charles and Abigail embraced him outright.

“Look what the cat dragged in!”

“Arthur Morgan and Rane Roth, what the hell d’you know!”

“Hey, old man!”

“You two look like hell!”

Dutch strode up, clapping him on the shoulder. “Glad you made it back, son.”

“What the hell happened outside?” Rane asked, glancing between him and Sadie.

“Oh, honey,” said Sadie, shaking her head grimly. “We got a lot to catch y’all up on.”

  
  


AS it turned out, the Pinkertons had set upon Shady Belle with all haste after Dutch and the rest of them had shipwrecked on Guarma, clearly tipped off by the bank robbery in Saint Denis. There had been no Aurors in the assault - Rane had interrupted Sadie and Uncle several times to make sure - and that relieved her. MACUSA weren’t pursuing the gang, either because they didn’t know about them or they didn’t care, and each way was as welcome news as the next. The lot of them had fled to Lagras once the onslaught had been fended off. They'd been pursued, but the remaining Pinkertons had been dispatched when they had arrived and now lay outside on the lawn, meant to be cast into the swamp for the gators once the rain let up.

“It was Missus Adler,” said Strauss. He was leaning against the weathered wood, fidgeting with his collar and watching Dutch and Arthur. Rane had curled her legs beneath her and sat opposite him on the straw-littered floor next to Sadie and Arthur, the latter of whom had stretched his legs out before him, feet crossed and hat on his lap, tapping his calloused fingers against it gently. “She got most of us out of harm’s way before the Pinkertons showed up. And then she and Mister Smith held them off as we fled.”

Rane elbowed Sadie. “Well, would you check out little miss thang over here?”

“Oh, hell.” Sadie rolled her eyes, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s horseshit.”

“Well, Missus Adler, you have my thanks,” said Dutch expansively, casting her a fond look. “You too, Mister Smith.”

Charles tipped him a little salute from where he was laying in a hammock near the back door, one arm behind his head.

“Arthur, listen, there’s some bad news,” said Mary-Beth, glancing at Dutch, who was standing near the door, hands in his pockets, looking rain-soaked and disheveled, his usually sleek hair hanging around his face. “We lost Kieran and Sean back there at Shady Belle.”

Arthur jerked at Rane’s side, his brow furrowing into an expression of raw injury. “Aw, hell, what? _How_?”

“Sean got shot in the head,” said Uncle, folding his arms and looking at Arthur unhappily. “Kieran, well . . . well, Kieran . . .”

“What?” Arthur demanded.

Uncle hung his head, rubbing his neck, looking away. A rather dense silence fell at this. Arthur scoffed, leaning forward.

“How’d it _happen_? Tilly, say.”

Tilly met his eyes, grasping at her skirts, looking unwieldy.

“Pinkertons got to him, Arthur, they must have snatched him up,” she said, her voice low. Rane glanced between Arthur and Dutch surreptitiously, noting the sharp contrast between their expressions: Arthur looked devastated, anguished, and Dutch looked . . . well, how _did_ he look? His eyes were on the floor, and he seemed nothing so much as impatient, racing his motor to be past this subject and on to something else despite four of his boys being dead. Rane's eyes lingered on him as Tilly spoke. “They . . . oh, Arthur, they -”

“They chopped off his damn head, is what them bastards done,” said Sadie, low.

Rane inhaled sharply. " _What_?"

Sadie was nodding grimly. “Tied him to a horse and hustled it in, with his body trussed up in the saddle. Eyes gouged out. A little fuck you from them to us. That’s how he went, Arthur, since nobody wants to say.”

Arthur stared over at her a moment, horrified, then leaned back, rubbing his face roughly. “God _damn_.”

“We snuck into town and got Lenny and Hosea back,” said Abigail, fixing Arthur with a softened gaze. “Gave ‘em a proper burial. It was nice, you woulda liked it.”

Arthur nodded, meeting her gaze, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Rane reached over and squeezed his thigh gently.

"It gets worse," said Abigail, her voice hoarse. "John's locked up, they got 'im after that Saint Denis mess -"

"They took him to Sisika Penitentiary," Sadie added, grim. "It's offshore and guarded heavy."

"And Molly's run off too, nobody's seen hide nor tail of her since y'all disappeared," Abigail added. "We got problems, Dutch, big ones. I'm so damned worried about John. I'll - I mean, the boy - well, he'll never -"

“What’s done is done,” said Dutch stridently, stepping forward. “We’re gonna get outta here, and we're gonna get John out when the time's right. It’s been tough, it’s true, but listen . . . _I am gonna get us outta here_. Trust me. We're gonna collect our family - _all_ of 'em - and we are gonna get the hell offshore and outta here. All I need from you is a little bit of faith.”

"When the _time_ is right," Rane echoed, very faint. Arthur heard her, but Dutch clearly didn't. Everyone was watching him, fidgeting a little, but Rane saw a lot of captivation in the gazes around her, too. Despite the emptiness of these words - hell, may as well say it, the delusion - they were as helpless in the face of his charisma as Arthur was. As Rane had been herself, at times. She got to her feet abruptly, brushing off her jeans.

“Dutch, can I talk to you outside?”

Dutch looked down at her. So did Arthur. Rane kept her gaze on Dutch's.

“Just for a second. Please.”

Dutch eyed her speculatively. “Everything alright, my dear?”

“Yep. Just . . .” Rane jerked her head. “Just a sec. I promise it’ll be quick.”

Dutch leaned forward, opening the door, and bowed her out into the driving rain, extending a hand. Rane strode past him, feeling Arthur’s eyes following her out.

The rain was falling steadily now, not quite tumultuous but nearing it. The sound of it hitting the roof above them was loud, monotonous, and the little yard leading to the trail before the shack was nearly flooded, shining in the yellowish dying light. The marsh was riotous with the splashing of the deluge, its surface tempestuous and boiling. The sounds of the cicadas were, for once, ceased against this weather. Only the crickets chirping in the growing evening were discernible against the strike of the droplets on the already surging lawn. The smell of ozone and dirt was powerful, the wind cool and humid.

Rane sat on the edge of the dock on the opposite side of the shack, sheltered only just by the teetering roof over them, her boots dangling toward the water. Dutch stood over her for a moment, arms folded.

"Well, Miss Roth, what is it you wanted so desperately to talk to me?" he asked her, a trifle impatiently.

She glanced up at him, her hair still damp from their entrance earlier, and patted the dock at her side.

“Pop a squat. Please.”

“I’ll pass, if that’s all the same to you, darlin’.”  
  


“Come on, sit.” Rane kept her voice deceptively offhanded. She watched him from where she sat, her eyes acute beneath her brows. “Please, Dutch. It’s weird with you standing there like that.”

Dutch eyed her for a moment, frowning, then he sat, letting his boots dangle over the dock’s edge too. Rane leaned back on her palms, watching the rain disturbing the water, listening to its quick cadence.

“Smells kinda nice, doesn’t it?”

“What does?”

Rane jerked her head. “The rain.”

“Talk about what you wanna talk about, Rane, I didn't come out here to discuss the way this place smells, for God's sake.”

"Have you ever been . . . y'know, cuffed around the head?"

Dutch snorted derisively, starting for his feet. "If you were a man I'd knock your damn lights out for sayin' something like that, Rane Roth -"

"Wait, _wait_!" Rane snatched at his hand with both of her own, fixing her eyes on him, and she felt him loosen in surprise at her touch, meeting her gaze, freezing. She pulled him gently. "You didn't hear the rest of what I was going to say, just . . . just c'mere. Please."

"You trying to insult me, girl?"

" _No_. Not at _all_." Rane kept her eyes firmly on his, letting the wind tease her hair about her face. "Sit _down_ , Jesus, I wasn't done yet."

Dutch did, reluctantly. "Alright, well get to it, then."

Rane sighed, trying to sound repentant. "Oh, fuck. Forget it. Now I just feel like an asshole."

Dutch rubbed his forehead, but he wasn't getting up, and Rane noted this, encouraged. "You ain't an asshole, but I think you might be a damned fool sometimes, askin' somebody something like that."

"Will you sit with me for a minute, at least? I've had nobody but Arthur for company for the whole day, it's nice to . . . well, y'know."

She let this thought trail off, unfinished. Dutch glanced sidelong at her, brow furrowed, suspicious and a little remonstrative, but he didn't leave her just yet.

"Well, I suppose. Get some fresh air, anyways."

"Thanks, Dutch." Rane leaned closer to him, scooting toward where he sat until their thighs were touching. Dutch didn’t resist, but there was definite surprise in his eyes. "Cold out here, huh?"

"Little bit."

Rane teased her blouse down with one hand, yanking it toward her belt, pulling it tighter over her chest, and leaned back on her elbows, watching the rain fall. Her clothes were still damp from the ride in, and from her peripheral she saw Dutch’s eyes stray over her torso, his mouth loosening a little, spoiling his bravado. She let him look, avoiding his gaze, her expression a little wolfish in its vigilance. Information was information, and she was willing to duck a little beneath herself to get it from him, especially right now.

“What are you looking at?” she said, soft, watching him, her face grave and unsmiling. He met her eyes slowly, letting his gaze roll up from her body to her face without trying to conceal it, chewing his lip. Rane had a moment to reflect on Arthur’s days-old observation - _Dutch looks at you the way he looked at Molly, once upon a time_. There was a certain greed in his gaze that she had seen before.

“Nothin, darlin’.”

“Nothing?” Rane flexed a little, moving her shoulders, aiming herself more in his direction. “You wanna look at me? Look. It’s okay, Dutch.”

"You been drinking, Rane?"

"A little," Rane lied. "Is that okay?"

"Arthur might not like seein' you sitting so close to me."

"Well, Arthur isn't out here. You are."

Dutch stared at her a moment longer, then turned his eyes back to the bayou, clearing his throat. But they didn’t remain there for long. They had strayed back to Rane almost at once, helpless. Rane saw this, shrewd, eyeing him watchfully, letting him see her looking.

“Are you gonna tell me what you wanted to say?” said Dutch, but his voice had grown gentle, his eyes soft, and they were roving over her face now.

"Sometimes people hit their heads, and they start feeling some kind of way about somebody," said Rane. She raised a fist and knocked it on Dutch's temple gently. "It happened to me. I just wondered if it had ever happened to you. You seem smart about a lot of things."

"That's all you wanted to say?"

Rane leaned a little closer to him, until his tobacco-tinged breath passed hot over her face. The rain continued to pound all around them. She allowed her body to roll a little, becoming lithe in her movements, smooth and slow, letting the muscles in her thighs flex gently as she moved them against his.

“What do you want me to say?” Rane asked him, her voice loose and husky and very quiet, letting her eyes rove from his mouth to his eyes. Dutch watched her, still except for the quick breath in his chest, and Rane leaned a little closer, letting her mouth stray close to his.

“Dutch?”

Dutch exhaled roughly, his eyes on her mouth. Rane let his lips come within a hair’s breadth of her own, watching his eyes, seeing how badly he wanted to kiss her.

"Was it just me who got hit on the head and started thinking about how handsome you are, all of a sudden?"

"I ain't been hit on the head," Dutch said, faint.

Rane rolled over him suddenly, straddling him on the dock, squeezing her thighs against his, and grasped his cheeks in her hands, meeting his gaze, her long, damp hair hanging around his face. He inhaled sharply, startled, dark eyes wide with surprise, lying back on the planks beneath her, succumbing. Rane ran a hand through his black hair, watching his eyes, letting her mouth linger just before his again, her hand trailing down his throat.

“I think you were.” She slipped a hand below the collar of his shirt, touching the curls of hair there, caressing his chest and feeling the quick cadence beneath his skin. She let her voice slide into a low, husky whisper, leaning closer still, speaking into the cup of his ear. “You okay, Dutch Van der Linde? Because I can feel your heart pounding. Why is that? Do I scare you? Or is it something else?”

Dutch swallowed hard, looking up at her. He’d been utterly undone by this, surprised as much as seduced, and Rane was pleased to see it. She leaned down again, letting her lips linger just above his, feeling his quick breath on her face as she did.

“Were you hit on the head?” she asked again, and let her lips brush the corners of his mouth, feeling him leaning toward her and evading his mouth by the merest inch. She caressed his head, letting her fingers run through his dark hair. “Like I was?”

“I ain’t -”

His words dissolved into a long, rough sigh. Rane had grasped his thigh and squeezed, feeling the tenseness there, her eyes still on his.

“Say,” she whispered, her mouth just over his.

“Once,” Dutch gasped. “Train job. Weeks ago. _Please_ -”

Rane got up, slinging her leg over him, and stood, brushing herself off. Dutch sat up, looking at her in bewilderment.

“What -?”

“I’m sorry,” said Rane, looking down at him. “I’m just drunk, Dutch. I’m gonna go lay down.”

With this she strode inside, leaving Dutch leaning up from his place on the dock, utterly confused, staring after her.

  
  



	36. Sadie and Rane Ride Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane briefs the few remaining allies they have on the situation, then she and Sadie head out to save John Marston

_If you're gonna drown_   
_Then do it the right way_   
_Do it the right way._

**\- Willy DeVille**

_______________________

Rane strode quickly inside before Dutch could follow her from where she’d beguiled him, banging open the door. Most of the gang had begun bedding down - Micah and Uncle were both kicked back in hammocks, already asleep - but Arthur was still where she’d left him, and so was Sadie. She beckoned to both of them.

“Arthur, Sadie, c’mere for a second.” She pointed to Abigail. “You too. In back.”

Arthur and Sadie glanced at one another, bewildered, then followed her toward the rear of the shack. Abigail, looking suspicious, rose from where she’d been stroking a sleeping Jack Marston’s forehead and did the same. Rane waited until all three had approached before speaking, keeping her voice just above a whisper.

“Dutch is gonna say some stuff,” she said, meeting Arthur’s eyes, and without warning reached up and kissed him hard, grasping his shirt in her fists. “It wasn’t real, I just needed him to admit something.”

“What’d you do?” Arthur looked at her warily. “Certainly you didn’t try to be intimate with him or somethin’ -”

“I had to get him to admit it,” Rane replied, low, flushing a little. “I had to hear it from his own mouth.”

Arthur shook his head, the beginnings of anger rising in his eyes. “And what could _possibly_ -?”

“He _did_ get hit on the head. He _did_.” Rane shook her head, releasing him. “He’s brain-damaged or concussed or something. That’s probably what’s got him acting this way.”

“What in the _hell_ are you talkin’ about?” said Abigail, utterly taken aback.

"The way he's acting, Abigail, he's not right. The lights are on but nobody's home, you know what I'm saying?" She gestured. "Did you hear what he said earlier? About getting John out when the time was right? You ever know that man to sit on something like this? I mean, Jesus, I've only been here for a few days and even I can tell John is Dutch's favorite out of everybody -"

"She's right, he's actin' strange," Arthur agreed, nodding grimly. "Six months ago he'd have the whole lot of us stormin' in there with guns blazing to break him loose."

“I’m going to get John out. Tonight. Right now.” Rane looked at Sadie. “Do you know the way to this Sisika place? Will you come with me?”

Sadie nodded at once, tipping her hat back. “I do and I will.”

“Whoa, wait, now _hang_ on just a second, you two ain’t ridin’ out there by yourselves!” said Arthur, shaking his head. “Couple of young damn women on their own, that prison is _lousy_ with law, Rane -!”

“We’ll be fine,” said Rane, lifting her eyebrows at him. “This young woman saved your ass a couple times, by the way.”

“Yeah, and this one saved theirs,” Sadie agreed, jerking her head backwards.

“You really gonna get him out?” Abigail said, looking at Rane.

Rane fidgeted with her scabbard, not looking at her. “Not as a favor for the likes of you.”

Abigail watched her a moment, wringing her hands, looking pained.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “I know we ain't much seen eye to eye, but . . . thank you.”

Rane glanced up, her hazel meeting Abigail’s blue. “It’s not a favor,” she repeated. “I’m doing it for John and Jack, not for you. Thank me by not running off on him again.”

“I’m goin’ too,” said Arthur at once.

“No you ain’t,” said Sadie, looking at him sternly. “You need to -”

There was a snuffling snore behind them. Micah was rolling over in his hammock. All four of them turned, watching him warily, but he was still fast asleep, one hand slung over his eyes and his mouth hanging open.

“You need to be here with the rest of ‘em,” Sadie went on, her voice lower now. “Rane’s right, you seen it as well as I have that Dutch ain’t actin’ right lately. I dunno that I trust him to keep his head just this second, and all these folks here stuck with him . . . Dutch ain’t right. He ain't been right for some time now. They need someone to protect 'em.”

“Arthur, you’re the only one they’ve got if he goes tits up,” Rane agreed, grasping his hand tightly. “They need to relocate, those Pinkertons will be back, and there’s a little kid here to think about. And Dutch, over here navel-gazing and looking around him all paranoid like Caesar worrying after Cassius and Brutus . . . that’s not the way people are supposed to act. He called these guys his _family_ , for Christ’s sake. And what about how he was on Guarma? That old lady? Sending me in to save Javier alone?” She squeezed his hand tighter still in her own. “Arthur, if we don’t get in front of this, _John won’t get out of prison at all_. Dutch isn’t planning on going after him, you know it as well as I do, and Micah is gonna fan this fire every chance he gets. You _know_ I’m right.”

“There’s talk of hangin’ him, Arthur,” Abigail added, watching him anxiously.

Arthur sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Goddammit. You’ll be careful, won’t ya?”

At the head of the shack, the door banged open and Dutch strode inside, pulling his vest straight, looking a trifle disarranged, his face still flushed. Rane turned at once, nudging Sadie, and made for the rear entrance.

“We’ll be careful,” she said, looking back at Arthur, making a point of meeting his eyes, trying to make her gaze resonant with significance. “Love you.”

“You too,” said Arthur, watching her anxiously. Sadie and Rane swept out the back door, and a moment later Arthur heard the snorting of their horses and the diminishing hoofbeats as the two of them rode away from them in the rainfall. He imagined her astride Eli, her long hair damp beneath the rain - she never wore a hat, God knew why, though he’d offered her one of his own frequently - and felt a wistful jolt of anxiety in his chest. Christ, he hated being away from her, even for a little while.

Abigail remained at Arthur’s side, watching him perceptively. He was still peering toward the door from which Rane had just departed, his brow furrowed, his broad chest moving quickly beneath his folded arms.

“Hey,” she said softly, looking at him. “Lemme ask you somethin’.”

“I can’t talk about Dutch right now, Abigail, I truly cannot. It's vexin' me too bad.”

“No, I was gonna ask you about that girl, actually.”

Arthur met her gaze, a little guarded.

“What about her?”

“I ain’t never seen a girl kiss you right out in the open while I was around, Arthur. And she said she loved ya.”

“So?”

“So that's true?”

Arthur hesitated, plunging his hands into his pockets, letting his dirty blonde hair fall into his eyes. 

“Yeah, just about.”

Abigail laughed bitterly, placing her hands on her hips, her gaze sliding away from Arthur’s.

“And all this time I thought she loved John.” Abigail scoffed. “Plain enough he loves her a little bit. He even says her name in his sleep sometimes.”

Arthur shook his head, touching her shoulder gently. “He don’t love Rane, Abigail, he loves you and Jack. He’s just infatuated with her. It’ll fade. That sorta thing always does. Young fellers, they’re always sayin’ shit they don’t mean.”

“Yeah, well.” Abigail shook her head, running her fingers through her dark hair. “Still don’t thrill me too much.”

Arthur said nothing, still stroking his unshaven chin.

“So do ya? Love her, I mean?”

Arthur nodded. “God knows it makes me a fool, like as not, but I do.”

Abigail reached out and took his hand in hers. “I don't think it does. I think it just shows that mean ol' Arthur Morgan has a heart, after all. I'm happy for ya.”

Arthur scoffed. “You don’t even like her, Abigail.”

“Well, no, not particularly,” Abigail admitted, smirking. “She stole my man’s eye, so can ya blame me? John will never say it outright but I’m pretty sure they spent a night together and probably were intimate while I was away. I ain’t gonna ask ya,” she added, seeing Arthur’s uncomfortable expression. “Even if you know, you’d lie for him.”

“Abigail -”

“All that’d make anybody pretty unhappy. ‘Specially when he was all of a flutter about her when I got back,” she added, scowling a little. “Made me jealous and angry as hell, I ain’t ashamed to say.”

“Sure. I understand.”

Arthur laughed, low. It felt a little strange, almost perjurious, talking about this with Abigail, who he’d lain in bed with more than once in the early days of her tenure with the gang. For her own part, she didn’t seem remotely bothered by it; her face was quite impassive. She really did love John Marston, despite all her hauteur, and he was rather happy to see it, surprising even himself.

“I worry about it. I don’t feel that I’m such a good feller for her. For _anybody_ , but . . . but especially for her. She’s better than the likes of me, Abigail.”

“Well.” Abigail scoffed, looking aft. Dutch was talking to Javier and Mary-Beth, their conversation inaudible back here. “If me and John can make it work, so can you two, God knows. I seen that look on girls’ faces before. She thinks on ya when she ain’t with ya, I guarantee it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You got a hang up about women, Arthur Morgan, that much I’ll say.”

She squeezed his hand once more, looking up at him, smiling.

“I oughta get back to Jack. You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan.”

“No, I ain’t,” said Arthur, very low.

“Well, she seems to think so,” said Abigail, jerking her head toward the door. “And she don’t seem like a stupid woman, even if I don’t like her much. Maybe you oughta think on that.” She squeezed his hand one last time. “I think so, too.”

With this she strode from him, leaving Arthur to watch her departure, feeling out of sorts.

  
  


SADIE and Rane rode in silence in the rain, the mud clopping beneath the horses’ hooves steadily. The patter of the precipitation on the bayou on both sides of them was constant and rather comforting to Sadie, who had spent many nights like this with Jake in her early years of marriage. The sound of water on water always reminded her of him.

“I ain’t never known you to be quiet,” Sadie remarked at length, sardonic.

“Arthur asked me to marry him, Sadie,” said Rane abruptly at length. “Yesterday.”

Sadie looked at her in surprise, her brow furrowed beneath her hat. Rane was without one, as she always was, and her long hair was plastered to her neck and her cheeks, her eyes on the road ahead, her blouse wet against her lean chest, clinging to her flat belly as she rocked in Eli’s saddle. She looked beautiful and troubled in the grim light.

“What? He asked ya?”

Rane nodded, her lips pursed.

“Well, what’d you say?”

Rane laughed, low. “Yes.”

“Oh, _hell_!” Sadie slapped Eli’s hindquarters, spraying rainwater and making him whinny, surprised. “Congratulations, you damn old fool! Christ, I had no idea!”

“You think it’s good?” Rane glanced at her, eyes uneasy. “You’ve known him longer than me, Sadie.”

“Well,” Sadie said, shrugging. “Not by much, but yeah, he’s the best damn man I’ve ever known besides my Jake. Good person through and through, much as he likes to try and play it off. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry for there.”

“Seems that way,” said Rane, low, looking toward the path again. Sadie watched her shrewdly.

“You love him?”

Rane scoffed. “Sadie, if he asked me to jump off a cliff I’d probably do it.”

“Well, that’s the good thing about Arthur, he won’t ask ya to do that,” said Sadie, looking amused. She hesitated, then added, “Dutch ain’t gonna be pleased.”

“Well, Dutch isn’t pleased about jack shit from what I’ve seen, unless it’s farming mangoes in Tahiti,” said Rane, grim. Sadie snorted.

“Sounds like you got him pegged.” She glanced sidelong at Rane. “You really think he’s losin’ it?”

“I don’t know him very well, but I know crazy when I see it.”

“Huh.” Sadie looked pensive, her shirt clinging to her in the rain. “He wasn’t always this way, Rane. He was a good man when I joined up. This shit . . . this all came later on.”

“Either way,” said Rane, low. She cleared her voice, tossing her dripping hair from her face. “You wanna ride through or camp out? Is it far?”

“I think we oughta ride through,” said Sadie. “Comin’ on ‘em in the rain and the dark might be good. Though I doubt they’ll have him workin’ on the chain gang in the middle of the night.”

“It doesn’t matter, I can get him out even if he isn’t.” Rane was clutching the bridle with one hand, chewing her lip. “I’m more worried about how Dutch will react when we show back up with him.”

“He won’t be happy.” Sadie laughed, low. “Double unhappy when he finds out about you and Arthur gettin’ hitched."

“Why you say?”

“Because Dutch don’t like his boys bein’ hung up on nobody except Dutch.”

Rane sighed, wiping at her brow and flicking rainwater away. Thunder rolled overhead.

“What a shitshow.”

“Honey, don’t I know it.” Sadie spurred her horse into a gallop. “C’mon, let’s make it quick. I don’t wanna beleaguer this anymore than you do.”

  
  
  



	37. John Gets Rescued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a trifle awkward, but Sadie and Rane pull it off

_All along the watchtower_   
_Princes kept the view_   
_While all the women came and went_   
_Barefoot servants, too_   
_Well, uh, outside in the cold distance_   
_A wildcat did growl_   
_Two riders were approaching_   
_And the wind began to howl._

**\- Jimi Hendrix**

___________________

They rode until Sadie led them to a dock, where she dismounted and hitched her horse. Above them, the stars glimmered through the dispersing clouds. It had finally stopped raining, but the smell of it, dense and damp, hung heavy in the air nonetheless, and the clouds still flexed overhead obdurately, threatening an encore. The crickets had revamped their efforts in its wake.

“We gotta row there from here,” Sadie said as Rane tied Eli. “It’s on an island in yonder lake. And listen, I don’t know what we’ll meet with when we get there, it’s a big ol’ damned place with a nasty reputation.”

“ _Dorth’hi_ ,” Rane murmured to Eli, grasping his face in her arms and pulling him close. He whickered, stamping, his tail flicking. “Sit tight, handsome man. I’ll be back for you soon.”

Eli whinnied, nuzzling her chest. Rane planted a fond kiss on his forehead, stroking his cheeks, and parted from him with a genuinely heavy heart, casting several glances back at him as she and Sadie climbed into the boat at the dock’s side.

"I sure do like that horse," she remarked. "Think he might be the best one I've ever had."

“You know how to use one of these?” Sadie asked, settling herself against the oars. Rane pulled her wand halfway from her pocket, sitting down on the damp wood.

“ _Locomotor_.” 

The oars snapped away from Sadie’s surprised grasp and began to row of their own accord, moving the boat away from the dock. Sadie laughed, settling back.

“Well, alright then.”

“Tell me about the lay of this place,” said Rane, leaning back herself. The slap of the water against the hull was loud and regular, the air heavy with humidity and the smell of rain. “I kinda wanna get in and out of here quick if we can.”

“Big.” Sade let her hat fall back on her neck, brushing at her damp hair. “Prolly around an acre and a half, I’d say. Couple holdin’ buildings in the middle and rock fields all around. John’ll be in one of ‘em for sure, this hour.”

“Okay. So I guess we check each one out until we find him, deal with anyone that comes along if we need to. Then we grab Johnny boy and get the fuck out of dodge, hopefully without any noise."

“His poor lil’ heart’s gonna just about jump right outta his chest when he sees you comin’ to his rescue, I reckon.”

Rane leaned forward over her knees and let her head dangle down for a moment before answering, scrabbling at her scalp with both hands, her long hair rippling. Though it didn’t occur to her at the time, her father was prone to the very same gesture in moments of frustration.

“They call that a proximity infatuation where I’m from.”

“Whatever you say, honeybunch.”

“Let’s just focus on getting him out and we can work on our stand-up later on,” Rane muttered sullenly. Sadie laughed.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a damn wad.”

They pulled the little boat onto shore a few minutes later, the hull grinding over the gritty beach, dragging it onto dry land side by side, their shoulders straining through their damp shirts.

“What’s the play?” Sadie asked Rane, a little winded, her hands on her thighs. Rane looked at her, surprised.

“This is supposed to be a joint effort, why am I in charge all of a sudden?”

“Why you think?” Sadie gestured to Rane’s hip. “Two of the reasons are right there on your belt.”

“Lame,” Rane sighed, pulling her wand and beginning toward the nearest building. “Where are the guards? There’s gotta be patrol or something, right?”

“There is, yeah.” Sadie grasped Rane’s shoulder, pointing. “Look up there. Crow’s nest, for starters. And a couple-few fellers walk the beat, too, from what I seen scoutin' out the place. Not too many this late, though, they’re more worried about keepin’ those poor bastards inside than they are keepin’ everybody else out.”

Rane followed her finger. There was a tower, crude but easily twenty or so feet high. They’d come in obliquely and somehow landed outside its line of sight out of sheer luck, but even if they hadn’t Rane didn’t think it would have posed much of a threat; the guard was sat with his feet propped up on the railing, a magazine opened before him, quite oblivious.

“Okay, stay low and follow me. _Schnell_.”

Together they hurried through the fields, bent over at the waists, both staring around warily, Sadie’s guns drawn and held at her sides. The light from the moon overhead was bright enough to cast shadows beneath them, yet still they weren’t noticed, and Rane felt a touch of grim amusement.

“Statesville is about to get infiltrated by a couple of little girls and none of these jabronis have even noticed us yet,” she muttered, smirking over at Sadie. “Imagine telling on yourself like this.”

"Men," said Sadie, low, shaking her head.

“Couple up near the entrance,” said Rane, pointing. There were two guards standing at the entrance to the first compound, holding shotguns across their chests and reclining against the wood siding. One of them had his hat pulled over his eyes and his feet crossed in front of him. His lax posture was unmistakable.

Sadie squinted. “Christ, is _he_ -?”

“Straight up sleeping,” Rane agreed, low. Sadie snorted, stringing her forearm across her mouth.

“We coulda come sashaying into this place in broad goddamn daylight, that’s what I think.”

"Well, woe betide these slackers, then." Rane aimed her wand toward the two men, laying her right hand over her left forearm and squeezing one eye shut. “ _Imperio_!”

The guard nearest them, who was very much awake, snapped to attention at once. Rane got to her feet, gesturing to Sadie, who returned her gaze with burgeoning panic.

“Rane, he’s gonna _see_ you, ya damned fool!”

“Just come on.”

" _Rane -_!"

" _Come_ \- _on_!"

She was striding forward now, quite unafraid, her lean hips rocking in the moonlight and her hair rippling down her back. Sadie shot to her feet, following hastily after her, face screwed up in alarm.

“Hey, _hey_!” she snatched Rane’s wrist. “What in the hell are you _doin_ ’?”

“Come over here,” said Rane.

“ _I’m right here_ -!”

Rane flapped a hand. “Not you, shush.”

The guard was walking toward them now. Sadie aimed her gun over Rane’s shoulder at once, thumbing the hammer back. He did not slow at this display in the slightest.

“Whoa, big boy, hang on now, that's far enough -!”

“Do a push-up,” said Rane.

The guard dropped to the ground at once, obliging, his bare hands slapping into the mud. When this function had been completed - once down and then back up - he got to his feet again, letting his filthy hands dangle at his sides. Sadie’s gun flagged a little, her eyebrows high.

“What the fuck?” Her eyes cut to Rane. "What'd you do to him? He's gone all funny."

Rane approached the guard, whose gaze was empty and fixed on nothing in particular past both of them, a little slack-jawed. “He’s Cursed. He’ll do whatever I say."

"Oh, holy shit." Sadie holstered her gun, looking impressed. "There really is a damn spell for everything, ain't there?"

"Honestly,” said Rane, looking pensively at the man, “it’s kind of, like . . . weirdly fun, I get why people like to do it. Gross,” she added, looking revolted with herself. She scrubbed her palms on her shirt. “I need a shower just from hearing myself say that, Jesus Christ.”

Sadie stepped forward and shoved gently at the guard’s shoulder. He swayed backward but didn’t react otherwise. She laughed, sounding slightly bewildered.

"Anything you tell him to, huh?"

"Look, I know he's kinda cute but don't make this weird."

Sadie rolled her eyes. “So what’s your big plan? Get this guy to escort us inside like a couple of damn tourists?”

Rane shrugged, rubbing her neck. “I mean, this place must be privately owned, right? I can't imagine a place this big would be federal."

"Hell, I dunno." Sadie linked her thumbs in her belt. "I guess, I don't hardly know 'bout that type of shit."

"So we’re shareholders from Saint Denis, checking in. Or we work for the governor or something. Isn’t that right, big guy?”

“Yes, ma’am, shareholders,” the guard said at once, nodding.

"Couple of filthy women shareholders in the middle of the night showin' up to check on a prison without no menfolk don't exactly sound bonafide right out of hand," said Sadie dubiously. Rane shrugged, putting her hands on her hips and shifting her weight. The guard mimicked her motions almost comically, sighing along with her.

"I mean, it's a Hail Mary, sure, but I'm kind of making this up as I go." She cast Sadie a coy and rather beautiful smile, her eyes twinkling. "We'll improvise."

Sadie was watching the guard with interest, massaging her chin. “Make him do something stupid. So I know it’s real and you ain't makin' shit up.”

“Slap Sadie’s ass.”

He had done it before Sadie could leap out of the way, squeaking in surprised outrage. The sound was sharp in the evening silence. Rane burst out laughing, bending over her knees.

“You damn shit, Rane!” Sadie said sharply, smacking Rane’s arm, one hand clutching her assaulted bum. “That ain’t what I _meant_!”

"Aww, now that wasn't very nice," Rane admonished, giving the guard a reproachful look. "Apologize, my guy, that isn't very becoming behavior for somebody wearing such a spiffy uniform."

"Sorry, missus," the guard said obligingly.

"Oh, Rane." Sadie was still massaging her butt. "To hell with the likes of you."

“Hey, you asked,” said Rane, grinning, and gesticulated toward the building. “Lead the way, white-John-Coffey.”

The guard nodded demurely, starting away. "Yes'm."

"My man." Rane clapped him on the shoulder fondly. "Twenty years shy of the Nineteenth Amendment and there's still one true gentlemen hanging around this old bastard of a country, after all."

"Well, what are we meant to do?" Sadie said uncertainly, still rubbing her ass ruefully. "Just follow him inside?"

"He'll do what I tell him," Rane repeated. She had stuffed her wand into her pocket and was busy tying her long hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, smoothing it away from her temples. "Try and look professional. If it goes sideways I'll knock them down but try to keep this kind of quiet for the moment. Let's get John and get the fuck out of here."

  
  


THE cells weren’t all full, not by a long shot - Rane put them at about a quarter total capacity - but it was evident right away that they’d come to the right place. The heavy iron door creaked loudly as they strode inside, and the eyes of many of the prisoners followed them. Rane was sure they hadn't seen a woman in who knew how long and bore these lurid gazes with wry patience, just as Sadie was. There were guards along the walls, but not many, less than a dozen, most of them reclined in chairs and nose-deep in decidedly salacious works of fiction. The building smelled like unwashed men and mildew and piss, and Rane wrinkled her nose at once, dismayed at the contrast from the clear, sweet rain-tinted night air outside the door they'd just passed through. Sadie, at her side, was doing the same, brushing her hand against her nose with distaste.

"Must be what hell smells like," she murmured, low. Rane snorted.

"Welcome to being a straight woman."

John was in one of the cells in the far end of the building, sitting on a bunk with his legs stretched out, not paying attention to their advent. He was barefoot and clad in stripes, and Rane had to smile at the sight. She’d heard about prisoners’ garb like this but seeing it in person was a touch surreal, like something out of an old Clint Eastwood movie. He had one arm slung over his eyes, his chin unshaven, his dark hair cast beneath his head. As lacking in observation as ever, Rane thought, smirking. Good thing he was so handsome, otherwise the man would never get ahead in the world at this rate.

“Who’re these ladies, Lassey?” another guard said, lifting his chin at Rane and Sadie.

"My name is white-John-Coffey," said Lassey, sounding supremely disdainful. Sadie cast an alarmed look at Rane, but she waved her hand gently at her side, looking a trifle amused with herself. Lassey waved his hand at the guard in quite the same manner.

"I mean . . . yes. My name is Lassey. And these -" Lassey cast a hand toward Rane and Sadie. “These are visitors from the main financier's -"

"Governor," Rane murmured, very low.

"- the _governor's_ office.”

“We’re just making sure things are running clean around here,” said Rane, drawing herself up to her full height and trying to sound authoritative.

“They’re makin’ sure things are runnin’ clean ‘round here,” Lassey echoed, nodding.

"Well, uh -" The guard that was addressing them pulled his hat off and placed it against his chest, looking a little chastened, his mustache twitching. "Miss, listen, I reckon we ain't never had an inspection at such a late hour, and - forgive me, but never by a couple o' ladies."

He gestured at her and Sadie, looking a trifle abashed. A few of the other guards were eyeing them over their nudey mags now from across the compound, eyes suspicious.

"Well, we're here off the books," said Rane, still in that same unnaturally deep, imperious tone. Sadie had to feign scratching her chin to stave off a grin. "People tend to, uh - well, they tend to perform a little more honestly when the visit is unexpected. Or . . . or not including . . . uh, dudes."

"Oh, of course, of _course_!" the guard said, nodding eagerly. Sadie realized he'd swallowed this story hook, line and sinker and had a moment to be rather impressed with their work. If she'd placed bets on whether or not this roughshod plan was going to actually work, she'd have left this prison with empty pockets. "I _completely_ understand."

"We've got other business," Sadie supplied, stepping forward.

"Yeah, we've got a pardon, right Lassey?" Rane agreed. She glanced at Lassey, who nodded his head quickly.

“They got a pardon for a feller in back, name of . . .”

He trailed off, looking briefly confused, his brows contracting.

“Marston." Rane disguised this into a cough, closing a fist around her mouth.

“Marston, yeah.”

“That boy what tried to shoot up officers at the bank?” the guard looked startled. “Hey, he’s set to swing, what the hell -?”

"We didn't come here to ask your permission," said Rane sharply. Lassey was nodding at once.

“It’s a federal order, we ain’t got no say!” Lassey said sharply. “Go and get him!” And then, when the guard hesitated: “Go on!”

"Governor'll be pissed if we show back up without him," Sadie agreed grimly.

The guard looked between Lassey and Rane a moment longer, then started off, looking bewildered. Now the bulk of the rest of the guards were watching this exchange with unfiltered interest.

“You son of a shit-snacking whore,” Sadie murmured, shocked, watching the guard trot away toward John’s cell. "I can't believe that worked."

“I’m nobody’s son,” Rane replied, low but she was grinning. She nudged Lassey. “Slap Sadie’s ass again.”

Sadie dodged it this time, but only just. “You bitch.”

Rane aimed a finger at her, grinning. “So you remember this moment next time you doubt me.”

“I’d rather not remember this shit at all, to be honest.”

The three of them followed after the guard, who had stopped in front of John's cell at last and was rifling in his jeans pockets. John himself was still quite unaware of their presence. Rane was surprised he hadn't even roused at the sounds of their voices.

"Alright, here we are," said the guard, pulling a ring of keys from his belt. "Marston. This the feller you lookin' for?"

"Tall, gangly, kinda goofy-lookin'?" said Sadie. "Black hair, scarred up, sorta looks like a hangover in human form?"

"Aye, that sure sounds accurate, miss."

"Then yeah, that's him," said Sadie, smirking. Rane kicked at her gently, grinning behind her hand.

There was a metallic creak as John’s cell door was unlocked and then swung wide. The guard jerked him up roughly, and a moment later he was being led out, bleary-eyed and shadowing, clearly just woken, his ankles and wrists both shackled. Now, at last, he realized what was happening as his eyes fixed on Rane. He seemed to gather a sudden burst of life, his eyes springing wide and his mouth dropping open. Rane was a little startled at how visceral her reaction to seeing him again was; she could feel the weight of her heart in her chest abruptly at the sight of his face, rough and unshaven and handsome with his dark hair falling around his ears and his brows descended over his eyes. If she thought before that she'd put their mess behind her, she was sure now that it wasn't quite as dead and buried as she might have liked, Arthur Morgan or no. The guilt was still there, alive and well.

John, meanwhile, was clearly about to say some stupid shit. Rane met his gaze, trying to communicate without speaking that he needed to shut the fuck up, and for a wonder it seemed to work. His mouth snapped shut and his expression became a little more neutral, anyways, which was decidedly preferable to hearing him blurt out something that might have given them away. The shock in his eyes was still quite unmistakable. The guard thrust him forward.

“This the boy you asked for?” The guard asked. "One with the, uh . . . governor's pardon?"

“That’s the very one.” Rane grasped John’s bound wrists, jerking him close to her. His eyes were still fixed on her as if hypnotized. "What are his charges, honeybunch?"

The guard tipped his hat back. "Hoo- _wee_ , besides shootin' up that bank, ya mean? This here boy's got a laundry list goin' all the way back to when he was knee high to a grasshopper, missus. If you'll let me go back to my office and -"

"Nah, forget about it. The governor's office will have everything we need. He's gonna behave while we escort him back to dry land unless he wants to go right back into the clink, ain't ya?" Rane jerked John roughly. He nodded eagerly.

"Behave, yeah, sure."

"You want for us to send out a lil' chaperone?" the guard said. "Couple women with a convict don't exactly sound too safe to me, 'specially armed with . . . well, just with that liturgy there."

He lifted a chin toward Rane's sword, clearly assuming it was some sort of ceremonial symbol of her rank. Rane was grimly amused; filthy, covered in Eli's hair and rain-soaked as a drowned cat, she was, yet somehow this dingleberry of a guard still thought she was a general or something. It was all a trifle ridiculous.

"No, no, he's gonna be just fine with us," said Sadie, nodding assuredly. "He ain't gonna try nothin' funny. He knows who we answer to."

This remark trailed off ominously, unresolved. The guard watched Rane and Sadie a moment longer, as if hoping they'd elaborate upon this. When neither did, he nodded, smiling winningly, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Well, perhaps there's something else we can show ya, madams, to ensure our benefactors know things are -"

"I think we have all the material we need," said Rane, beaming at him. "You keep up the good work, won't you?"

"Yes ma'am." The guard was nodding hastily. "'Course. We aim to please. Hey, listen d'ya think you could put in a good word for me, maybe? We're in dire need of more cash for repairin' the pickaxes, and -"

Rane waved a dismissive hand. “Pickaxes, right, we'll put it on the docket. So listen,we’re gonna cut out. Lassey will take care of the paperwork regarding our visit.”

“I’ll take care of the paperwork,” Lassey agreed, his voice a little lilting. He was gazing blankly at the far wall, and the other guard eyed him suspiciously.

“You okay there, Lassey? Got a 'lil thousand yard stare on ya, there.”

“Yessir.”

"Huh." The guard watched him silently a moment. Sadie cleared her throat, gesturing at John, who was also watching Lassey with bewilderment.

"He's bound still," she remarked.

“Oh, hell, yeah, you need the keys, 'course,” the guard said, looking embarrassed, digging in his pocket, but Rane waved her free hand, shaking her head.

“No, no, I’ll handle that.” She cast about, improvising. “We have the master key for, uh, all the . . . the stuff here. It’s . . . it’s policy.”

Lassey was nodding, too. "Policy, yeah. I've been briefed."

"You been briefed? When the hell'd all this happen?" the guard asked. "Shit, you wasn't even on duty yesterday, Lassey."

"Briefed," Lassey echoed, faint. "I been briefed."

"Uh-huh." The guard was looking at Rane and Sadie, suspicion dawning in his face. "Before you ladies take Marston, I wanna clear all this with the warden, if that's -"

"You don't wanna do that," Rane said, low. Sadie saw her pull her wand partially from her pocket again, and the guard's face went as lax as Lassey's at once.

"I don't wanna do that," he agreed, soft and dreamy.

"Sit down," Rane commanded.

He did at once, falling roughly onto the ground outside John's cell, placing his hands demurely in his lap, his legs trailing out in front of him and the toes of his boots aimed at ten and two, perfectly relaxed.

"I'm sittin' down."

"Yes, you are."

"What in the _hell_?" said John softly, gaping.

"Hush, John." Rane fixed Lassey with a sunny smile, raising her voice again so that the other guards across the room could hear. “Have an excellent night, sir, we'll take it from here."

"Yes'm."

She dropped her tone once again and said to the guard on the floor, "Keep an eye on all your boys and make sure no one follows us. We're the governor's girls.”

"Governor's girls, yes'm," the guard agreed. Satisfied, Rane turned to Lassey.

"You're gonna take a nap when we leave that door over there and come around near dawn, no matter how much your boys shake you."

"Nap." Lassey's eyelids began to droop at once. "No matter how much they shake me. Sure. A nap sounds good."

"And ask for a raise when you wake up," Sadie added.

Rane glanced at her, surprised. "What?"

"Tell him." Sadie jerked her head at Lassey. "He oughta get one, he's been awful nice."

"He's only been nice because I cursed him, you dipshit. John, is this guy nice?"

John shook his head at once. "Nope."

"Oh, _just_ -!" Sadie jerked her head toward Lassey, looking impatient.

Rane shrugged, gesturing to Lassey. "And ask for a raise when you wake up. Don't take no for an answer."

"Won't take no for an answer," Lassey concurred, nodding at once.

"Happy?" Rane turned, steering John toward the exit. "Come on."

THEY made it to the opposite shore before John finally spoke again. He had maintained his silence from the moment they'd left the compound. Rane wasn't sure if he was in shock or still angry at her, or maybe both, and she didn't much care either way. What she wanted was to get across the water, hop onto Eli and get all three of them as far from this place as she could. The other guards would be wandering over to Lassey and the guard who she'd left collapsed before John's cell by now, asking questions, and pretty soon a call to the governor's office would be in order, too, asking after the pair of ladies who had dropped in afterhours to make sure things were on the up and up at Sisika. If that happened before the three of them were well out of eyeshot, it would be their asses, wand or no. She had seen the sniper rifle leaned barrel-up against the crow's nest guard's thigh as they were leaving well enough.

"Get these off me, will ya?" John jangled the chains around his ankles. "Bad enough with no damn shoes on, musta stubbed my toes about fifty damn times gettin' away from there."

"Oh, man, Harpo speaks," said Rane sardonically.

"No need to thank us," Sadie added, looking irritable.

"Thanks," said John, a little sheepishly. "For comin' to get me. What the hell happened to y'all after that bank?"

"You're gonna have to clear a spot in your schedule if you wanna hear that one," Rane said. She had reached Eli, who had been watching her approach with unfiltered happiness from the hitching post, ears pricked and tail flicking, and patted his cheek gently before turning back to John. "C'mere, let me get those things off."

He shuffled over to her, the chains clinking, as she drew her sword. She placed a hand on his shoulder, urging his feet further apart with the toe of her boot, and he staggered his legs obligingly. When she looked up her face was inches before his. He was watching her, his dark hair in his face, his eyes bright in the moonlight.

"You came for me," he said softly. "Thank you. Truly."

His breath was light and fragrant over her face, familiar and warm, evocative of their evening by the river at once, and Rane felt gooseflesh ripple over her arms, despising herself at once for it. She loved Arthur Morgan so much she could hardly see straight, but the little flash of warmth that bloomed in her belly at John's nearness was tough to deny. Appetites of the flesh were obdurate as hell, like it or not.

"Well, we're not all assholes," she said, and kicked his feet a little further apart, still grasping his shoulder. The firm muscle beneath the thin fabric of his prison stripes was tense and warm. She aimed her sword with her free hand, trying to avoid his gaze. "Don't move, I don't wanna neuter you by mistake."

It was a swift, downward motion, the blade flashing in the moonlight. The chains binding John's ankles were dashed apart in a moment, the sound loud and coarse in the nighttime silence.

"Hold still, lemme see your hands."

With another deft motion the binds on his wrists fell away, clanking to the ground. He turned back to her as she holstered her sword.

"Are you okay?" John asked her.

"We're fine, I'll revel you with the details later," Rane replied, trying to sound short. His gaze was heavy on her face, and she met his eyes reluctantly. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

John grasped her face in his hands and kissed her abruptly, his mouth warm on hers. Rane pulled away from him, stumbling a little in the sand, startled. Sadie, who was tying off the boat, missed this little exchange, a fact Rane was glad for.

"Stop." She placed a hand on his chest, pressing him gently backward. "John, stop. We need to get away from this prison and make camp someplace, okay?"

John watched her another moment, his face long, then nodded. "Right. Sorry."

"You lot ready to roll?" Sadie said. She was climbing onto her horse, clearly unaware that anything unusual had happened. "I say we find a spot to hole up someplace outta the way."

"I couldn't agree more," said Rane, climbing onto Eli. She stretched a hand down toward John. "Come on up, honeybunch. Let's get outta here."


	38. After the Jailbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadie, Rane and John find a spot to hunker down, and John and Rane have a heart to heart

_I don't want to be your friend_   
_I just want to be your lover_   
_No matter how it ends_   
_No matter how it starts._

**\- Radiohead**

_____________________

The three of them made camp near the bayou as the night wore on. They’d gotten away like thieves at Sisika, and without a tail as far as any of them could tell, but their luck diminished fairly quickly; once they’d ridden far enough from the penitentiary to put sufficient space between them and potential pursuit, it had begun to rain again lightly, once more plastering Rane’s hair to her cheeks. She had begun to wish she’d taken up Arthur’s offer to borrow one of his hats now. Twelve straight hours of being soaked to the bone in this humid, messy weather without so much as a change of clothes was enough to make a pair of dry jeans and a warm blanket sound positively ambrosial.

They pitched a couple of tents in front of the makeshift, struggling fire, with the idea being that Sadie and Rane slept together in one and John in the other, but Sadie Adler, who’d spent the past two or three days fighting off Pinkertons, evacuating Shady Belle and helping bust John Marston out of prison, was spread-eagled and fast asleep before half an hour had passed, both hands curled behind her head and her blonde hair strewn over her forehead. This left Rane with John alone, something she’d very much wished not to suffer so soon.

The midnight hour found the pair of them sitting by the fire in the diminishing rainfall, Rane just inside the empty tent’s mouth, cross-legged with her sword on her lap, polishing the blade with a wad of her damp sleeve. John, sensing her reticence, had sat himself outside the tent, still barefoot in his prison stripes, shivering a little and clearly trying not to let it show.

“What happened after the bank?” John asked her at last. He’d largely maintained his silence since they’d left the shore after Sisika. Rane had, too; she’d avoided his gaze as much as possible, but now they were trapped together, without the social lubrication Sadie’s presence would have provided.

Rane didn’t look up from her sword. “That’s a pretty long story, sir.”

“Well, maybe talkin’ will warm me up.”

Rane glanced at him from beneath her brows, her hand slowing to a stop on her blade. He was sitting with both knees pulled up, hands dangling between them, glaring off into the woods. His hair was stringy with rain, and the soaked prison garb he wore looked about as thin as onion skin. She could see every filament of muscle in his shoulder and about six inches of his scrawny ankles were exposed in the dirt. He was still shivering, too. She placed her sword aside.

“John, why the hell are you sitting out there? The fire’s about to go out and it's raining.”

“Didn’t think you wanted me near ya.” John yanked a strand of grass from the ground and strung it between his teeth, blinking against the rain. “And Sadie’s hoggin’ up all the room in the other tent.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I ain’t shaking, I’m fine. It ain’t even that cold.”

Rane picked up a pinecone near the mouth of the tent and hucked it at him. It bounced off his temple, clattering into the brush. John flinched, giving her an affronted look.

“The hell was _that_ for?”

Rane slapped the spot at her side with an exaggerated gesture, open-palmed. “Quit acting all tough and bring your skinny ass out of the rain, Wyatt Earp.”

John glared at her a moment longer, then got to his feet, slipping a little in the mud. Rane scooted over a scosh, making room, and he dropped down on the ground with a grunt at her side beneath the cover of the tent. It was not a moment too soon; the light rain suddenly rose to a fever pitch, striking the tent like bullets overtop them. Sadie was unperturbed by this, still quite dead to the world across from them, but the little bonfire they’d mustered couldn’t quite hang; it whiffed out without fanfare, leaving Rane and John in relative darkness. Eli and Sadie’s horse were tethered some ways off, huddled close to one another, their breath puffing out of their nostrils in white clouds.

“Great,” John muttered.

“Come closer,” said Rane, beckoning and stretching her long legs out in front of her. When he cast her an uncertain look, she scoffed. “I’m not being weird, just come here, let me warm us up. It’s freezing and this spell sucks.”

John moved closer until her thighs were touching his. She quailed a little as he did; his skin was freezing even through her jeans. She pulled her wand, drawing a little counter-clockwise circle before them.

“ _Focillo_!”

A little golden orb of light manifested before them, hovering in the air. John recoiled a little, startled, but Rane nudged it toward him with her index finger, watching with amusement as he leaned back warily while it floated before his bewildered face. It was like watching a leery picnicker eyeing a bumblebee that was flying a little too near to his nose.

“Feel that?” Rane placed both hands palms-out against the light baking off of the little orb.

John nodded. “Warm.”

“Yeah.” She took one of his hesitant hands by the wrist and placed it nearer to the ball of light. “It’s not dangerous, stop being weird. Warm up.”

“Guess I’ll just never get used to that shit.” John leaned a little closer to the light, relishing the heat.

Rane sighed, leaning back on her elbows, watching the rain. “People can get used to anything.”

“Who’s Wyatt Earp?”

Rane looked at him with genuine surprise. “Beg your pardon?”

John shrugged, curling his legs beneath him much as Rane often did, allowing the orb of light to bake warmth over his chest. Gooseflesh stood out prominently on his bare forearms and his pared jaw was pitted in the low golden light as he clenched it against the shivers that wanted to rack his body. The rain continued to pound overhead.

“You called me Wyatt Earp earlier. Figured I was gettin’ insulted and wondered how, is all.”

Rane sat up, looking at him with naked astonishment. “You don’t know who _Wyatt Earp_ is?”

John shook his head.

“Tombstone. The O.K. Corral shootout. Doc Holliday. The Cochise County Cowboys. None of that’s ringing a bell, seriously?”

John shook his head again, glancing sidelong at her. “I wish I knew what the hell you were talkin’ about, Rane.”

“Holy shit.” Rane swept her hair from her face, still staring at him. He laughed, low, meeting her astounded gaze.

“ _What_?”

“When were you born? What year?”

“Seventy-three.”

“And this is ninety-nine.”

“Yep.”

Rane counted on her fingers a moment, mouthing silently, then shrugged.

“Ah, well.” She relaxed a little, clasping her hands, her eyes on the falling rain outside. “He’s still around for another thirty years or so, maybe word just hasn’t gotten around yet.”

“So who the hell is he? Or you gonna be mysterious about this too?” John sounded a trifle irritated. “You always gotta make everything sound like a goddamned riddle, girl, you gotta learn to just say shit right out loud.”

“He’s a lawman,” said Rane, smiling a little at the present tense. Thinking about Wyatt Earp alive someplace right at this very second was a little dizzying. “Give it a couple years and I bet you’ll start hearing about him. Fastest gun in the west.”

“Well that can’t be true, because _I’m_ the fastest gun in the west,” said John, thumbing his chest with the hand that wasn’t hovering before Rane’s spell.

“You’re in the southeast, but whatever you say.” She glanced at him, smiling a little and chewing her thumbnail. “You’re only twenty-six?”

“The hell do you mean,’only?’ You’re only a year more, for Christ’s sake -!”

“I dunno, I thought you were older,” Rane admitted, turning away, still smiling. John snorted, looking none too amused.

“Maybe you oughta send one of these things over there for Sadie.”

“Sadie’s barely even clinically alive right now, I think she’ll be fine,” said Rane, following his gaze. She was still stretched out, snoring lightly, boots lax in the low light. “Besides, she came dressed for the weather, unlike you, with your toilet-paper-ass pants and no shoes on -”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have a damn choice, did I?” John snapped, but he was grinning, the flash of his teeth rather lovely in the light of Rane’s spell. She was happy to see it, and happy to feel the enmity between them lessening a bit. The rain continued to fall heartily outside.

“So,” said Rane, leaning back on her elbows again “After the bank.”

She told him briefly of their adventures on Guarma, skating over the finer details of their time in Hostas and ending at last with her battle on the sand with Limdur. John was listening raptly by this point, arms crossed across his lean chest and eyes fixed on her face, captivated.

“You ain’t got stabbed in the damn chest and lived through it,” he said skeptically.

Rane pulled the collar of her shirt down, tracing over the long scar in the center of her chest. John laughed, low.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’ll be twice-damned.”

“I know, it’s insane. Some random little English doctor put me back together. I’ll never know how he did it.”

“Bet Arthur was about ready to lose his mind seein’ ya that way.”

Rane sighed, leaning back on her elbows again. Here they were. She’d known it was coming, and the levity of their conversation had lulled her into a false sense of security, but this was a splinter between them that would either fester or need excising. John was looking out into the rain, massaging his unshaven chin, mouth pursed.

“He was pretty upset, yeah.” She glanced at him, frowning. “Are we gonna do this right now?” 

“Well, we’re gonna do it eventually. May as well be now, who knows when I’ll get a second alone with you again. Between him and Abigail bein’ funny as hell every time we so much as look at each other -”

“Is Abigail -?”

“Of course she is,” John said at once, smiling a little beneath his hand. “Jealous? Is that what you were gonna say?”

Rane shrugged, smirking.

“You think she don’t know?”

Sadie snorted in her sleep across from them, rolling over, then resumed snoring softly. Rane shrugged again.

“How should I know? I don’t know Abigail from Eve,” she remarked, shifting her weight and letting one of her legs trail out before her. “Does she know because you _told_ her, or are you just speculating?”

John laughed loudly, letting his head roll back on his shoulders, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he did. “I wouldn’t tell her anything about you if she tried to torture it outta me, Rane,” he said, grinning. “She’s crazier than a shithouse mouse, she’d probably claw my damn eyes out then and there.”

“But you think she knows what happened.”

“‘Course she does, she ain’t stupid.” John sighed. “We spent about three hours yellin’ at each other about it when she got back. Don’t act like you didn’t hear it, I’m sure everybody did. She thinks you’re - I dunno, a sorceress or somethin’.”

Rane lifted her wand, spinning it around her forefinger once, smirking at him. "I am."

“Not like you’re thinkin’,” said John, smiling. “Like you’re into voodoo or somethin’. Talkin’ about how you look all young and beautiful but you’re really some old crone or somethin’ like that, tryin’ to bewitch men -”

Rane struck her thigh with the flat of her hand. "Aww, _fuck_. Caught me."

"I'm tellin' you, ain't no convincin' her otherwise, she wanted me to put salt around our tent the first night she was back. I couldn't make this shit up."

"But why I _want_ to do that?" Rane asked incredulously. "I mean, why wouldn't I just, I dunno, go seduce a rich dude or something? Why a bunch of outlaws?"

"Search me." John was watching her curiously. “What about Arthur?"

"What about him?" Rane was chewing her thumb, staring out into the rain, a little uncomfortable.

"Is he . . . I dunno . . . "

"Jealous?" Rane shrugged and nodded. “'Course he is. Doubly so when he figured out we shared a room in Saint Denis -"

"Oh, _hell_!" John looked rueful and a little accusatory. "Why'd you go and tell him about _that_?"

"I didn't _tell_ him, he just . . . figured it out. The man's sharp as hell, John."

"Yeah, I know it." John was plucking the scant strands of grass near the opening of the end and flicking them aft idly. "What's he think? What's he say?"

Rane shrugged. "I dunno. He never comes right out and says he's not cool with it, but he sort of pokes the bear, sometimes. We're quite a pair, the both of us, jealous as a couple of high school kids," she added, looking a trifle abashed. She rubbed her forehead briefly, slinging her long, damp hair over her shoulder. “He says you’re always stealing the girls he likes away from him because you’re young and handsome.”

“Shit.” He snorted. “You woulda laughed right out loud if you’d have seen how we was seven or eight years ago.”

“How was that?” Rane eyed him curiously.

“Well.” John shrugged, pawing the little orb of light before him with the tips of his fingers. Judging by his ruddy cheeks, he seemed quite warmed up now, and the rain was tapering off a little outside. “Arthur was always the good-lookin’ one with all the muscles. He was just too . . . I dunno, too dumb and too pissy to ever notice when girls was lookin’ at him that way. Then he’d get mad at me when I caught ‘em up after they got tired of makin' eyes at him. Got worse as we got older. He’s just . . . dumb about a lotta things, is all.”

Rane scoffed lightly, smirking, then leaned forward over her crossed legs, rubbing her hands together and looking out at the storm. John matched her movements, toying with the hem of his pants, watching her profile. She was lovely in the low light, her eyes bright beneath her lashes, brows dark and descended, chewing her lip, her skin clear and smooth and capering beneath the glow of her spell.

“You love him?” John asked her softly.

Rane met his eyes, still chewing her lip, then turned her gaze back to the rain pattering down into the dark forest beyond. The silence spiraled out before she answered, allowing the distant thunder to weigh in, as well as the low whinny of Eli some ways off as he shook himself off from rear to ears, spraying rainwater in an arc around his hindquarters.

“I love that man more than I can hardly stand,” she said, very low.

John sucked his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well I won’t pretend that don’t smart a little.”

Rane sighed roughly. “John, listen, can I speak freely for a moment? Without worrying that I’m going to hurt your feelings?”

John waved a hand before him. “If you’re worryin’ about that now, you’re kinda late.”

“We fucked drunk next to a river,” said Rane bluntly. She saw John’s cheeks redden, saw the way his eyes turned from hers awkwardly, and sighed impatiently. “Boy, you guys sure have some hang-ups around here. There’s nobody else to hear it, except Sadie Adler over there who’s about as captive an audience as Rip Van Winkle. We did it, it happened. We had sex. It was good - I mean, it was _really_ good - but that’s what it was. Sex. Drunk sex. Couple of lonely fuckers getting it on.”

“You know that ain’t all it was.” John shifted, scrubbing at his damp hair.

Rane sighed. "If Arthur wasn't around, maybe, yeah. But he _is_ around, John."

“So Arthur Morgan’s why I can’t lay down and hold you right now. You might could say I resent him a little bit for that, if that’s the fact of the matter -”

“No. _No_.” Rane shifted her weight, feeling ungainly. She had an unpleasant thought - Arthur, walking in on them talking this way without context - and her stomach cramped a little. “That's not the reason, John. It’s just circumstantial. I think . . . I think sometimes that these things are sort of predetermined.”

“I guess.” John sighed, rubbing his rough chin. He looked at her frankly, vulnerable in the light of the Warming spell. “I’m in love with you, Rane, I am. I think about you all the goddamn time, I _dream_ about you. Abigail don’t know it, not all the way, but I am.”

“John, you don’t love me, you just . . .” Rane gestured vaguely.

“What?” John looked darkly amused. “Just what?”

“Look, you and me aren’t so different,” said Rane, choosing her words carefully. “We both loved somebody, and we both lost them. You get lonely in between. So then you and me, we end up together alone, and I mean . . . what did you expect?” she finished lamely. “We were both starved for touch, and drunk, and -”

“You keep sayin’ I only say I care for you because we fucked!” John said, suddenly sharp. “Why you think that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“I care for you because of a whole mess of things, Rane, not just for that,” said John, his voice still cold. He was looking over at her, half his face hidden beneath his damp hair, his mouth downturned. “I ain’t as dumb as everybody's always sayin'. I don’t just like to look at ya and I don't just like fuckin'. I know how I feel.”

“What about Abigail?”

John scoffed, turning back to the rain. “She don’t love me none. She don’t even like me. We just got stuck together because of Jack.”

Rane watched him a long moment, her hazel eyes flitting over the features of his profile. The little ball of warmth she’d conjured was fading now, its light beginning to waver, and the strobe-like effect on John’s face made him handsome and sad.

“Abigail loves you a lot,” said Rane softly. “She wanted me to come get you. She was worried sick about you.”

John scoffed again. “Sure.”

"Seriously. That's the first time she's ever been nice to me, when I told her I was gonna go break you out. She wouldn't shut up about you all evening."

John shook his head, massaging his chin again, brow furrowed. Rane looked at him a moment longer, then reaching out she pulled him toward her, grasping his upper arm. He resisted a little at first, then gave into her, slackening. She strung an arm around his shoulders from his side and placed a kiss on his temple, letting her lips linger on his sweaty skin. His eyes fell shut at the gesture.

“Lay down,” she said softly into the cup of his ear. Outside, the rain continued to roll. “Tomorrow, you go home to Abigail. She needs you. So does your kid.”

She pulled him down next to her, still holding him, letting her forehead rest against his cheek, feeling his steady breathing against her ribs. At length, as the spell she’d cast finally went out and left them in inky darkness, he pulled her hand into his and placed it gently against his chest. The fabric there was still damp from the rain, and his heart was beating beneath her palm just beneath, a little more quickly at her nearness. The smell of him was close and balmy, sweat and dirt and something like sandalwood, just like before.

“We could just run away,” he whispered. "You and me. We don't have to go back there. I just wanna be with you, Rane -"

Rane shook her head, turning his face to hers, meeting his glittering eyes in the dark.

"John, I saved your life twice now and I'm about to save it one more time, so shut up and listen to me," said Rane, still meeting his gaze, her hand on his cheek. "I'm just temporary. I'm just passing through. I think you know that as well as I do, even if I don't really understand it. Abigail and Jack, they're permanent. They're for life. They need you."

"Temporary, huh? What about Arthur? What's he think about you bein' temporary?"

Rane looked at him, pursing her lips. The honest answer - _Neither of us are long for this world, one way or another_ \- lingered in her throat. If John knew Arthur was sick, he hadn't brought it up, and it wasn't Rane's place to be the one to tell him. Moreover, she didn't understand any of what was happening, not truly. It was just an instinct, and instinct was broad and inexact.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," she said at last.

John nodded, almost imperceptible in the dark, then leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers. Rane let him for a moment, noting the differences between him and Arthur almost without realizing it - his pace was quicker, the way his lips moved more unpolished, the taste of him more acidic, even the beat of his heart beneath her palm was harder and more patterned than Arthur’s - and then drew back, looking at him.

"You're not gonna change your mind about this, are ya?"

Rane shook her head. "Not even if I had a choice, which I don't."

She lay back, facing him, pulling her knees up. He placed his hands beneath his cheek, watching her, his breath fragrant and quick in the dark, his eyes flitting over her features, looking unhappy and resolved.

“Dutch is going crazy,” Rane said, soft.

“I know he is.” John sighed. “I know it.”

“We have to be really careful. Especially with Jack around.”

“I know."

"Has Arthur talked to you about all this? You don't sound very surprised."

John nodded again, but it was clear he didn't want to talk about Arthur any more tonight. "Will you cast another one of those spells? It’s cold as shit.”

Rane reached into her jeans pocket and produced her wand. “ _Focillo_!”

The ball of golden light appeared over them once again. Rane gave him a smile.

“Sleep good, John Marston.”

“Ma’am.” John tipped her a little salute. She winked at him, shutting her eyes.

After a few moments her breath lengthened and she slept, her face relaxing. John watched her for nearly an hour as she lay there, facing him, drinking in her features in the knowledge that it may be the last time he would be lying so near to her. Her dark lashes, her thick brows, her clear skin, her dark hair hanging damp over the dirt. The gentle breath in her chest, the slow thump of her pulse at the base of her throat, regular and steady in her repose. Even the deep, pale scar rising from the low rim of her shirt, souvenir of her battle on the beach of Guarma. He wished he could tell her everything in his heart, but he knew even if he did that it would make no difference. The girl had eyes for just one, and any fool could see it. She was a locked door, and a man could bend down and eye through the keyhole, sure, trying to catch a glimpse of the luminescence therein, but there was only one man who held the key to get inside and bask in her fullness, and he was far from this camp.

  
 _Arthur Morgan, I sure hope you know what you got in your hand_ , John thought before he drifted off, the golden light of the Warmth spell still spilling over them both. _I sure do hope you know._


	39. Varda, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane receives a visit from an old friend

Daylight dims leaving cold fluorescence  
Difficult to see you in this light  
Please forgive this bold suggestion  
Should you see your maker's face tonight  
Look him in the eye  
Look him in the eye, and tell him  
I never lived a lie, never took a life  
But surely saved one, hallelujah  
It's time for you to bring me home.

\- **TOOL**

__________________________

Rane opened her eyes.

She sat up, looking around her. It was a forest, populated by tall, thick trees, all interwoven with moss and vines and clearly ancient. It was snowing lightly, the ground beneath her coated in it, and overhead crows called raucously, flapping through the boughs, the sounds of their wings loud in the silence. It seemed to be dusk, or perhaps just before dawn. The light was long and low and reddish-purple even through the clouds overhead, the shadows along the snow running along faint and stretched.

Rane got to her feet slowly, eyes on the edge of the forest beyond where she’d found herself. There were lights there, faint and bluish, twinkling amidst the snowflakes drifting down. Though the falling snow obscured the spires, the dim shape of them rose into the sky, far above the canopy. A city of some kind, perhaps. It was . . . familiar to her, though she couldn't say just how. Like a photograph from her distant childhood, or a scene from some long-forgotten film.

“You don’t remember where we are.”

Rane whirled around at the sound of this sudden voice, hair flying. A young woman was sitting against a tree a little ways away, her back against its bark, long legs curled beneath her Indian-style.

“Who are you?” Rane said sharply. Her hand was fumbling about her belt, and after a second or two of aimlessly grasping at the place where her scabbard should have been she stared down at her waist, alarmed. Her sword wasn’t hanging at her belt. She never went anywhere without it. The woman laughed, low.

“You didn’t come to this place armed, Rane Roth.” She got to her feet, lithe and quite serene. “We have no need for weapons here.”

“You _skinned_ me!” Rane's voice was accusatory, almost insulted. She had never been disarmed before, at least not so brashly. "You skinned me while I was laying there, didn't you?"

“I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but I didn’t, no.” The woman was drawing nearer now, and as she did the falling snow ceased to obscure her finer features. She was tall, lean and excruciatingly beautiful, with long, straight dark hair and bright blue eyes that stared out from beneath thick brows. She was clad in jeans and a billowy white blouse, and she was smiling a little, still quite unperturbed. Her feet were bare in the light snow beneath them.

"Give me my sword back," said Rane, watching her warily.

"Your sword isn't here. It's a long ways away. But fear not. If I wished to harm you, we would not be speaking, and you would be lying dead in the snow."

She stopped, her bare feet snow-studded and damp, and for a few moments simply examined Rane with an expression of something like wistful affection. Rane continued to watch her cautiously. The look on her face paired with the words she'd just spoken seemed at odds with one another, to say the least.

"You were always so pretty," she remarked, smiling. "How I've missed looking on your face. What do you see?”

“What do you mean, ‘what do I see’?”

“Oh, must we _always_ go over this?” The woman sighed, as if this question bored her. “How do I appear to you, Rane Roth? What form do I take? Describe what you see, when you look upon me.”

Rane eyed her watchfully. She didn’t like encountering strangers without her weapon, particularly when the stranger seemed a trifle mad.

“Like me. Except the eyes.”

The woman came a step closer, her eyes roving over Rane’s features. “So it is,” she murmured, sounding faintly interested. “Our link has not been changed with time. How very curious. I have often wondered.”

"It's . . . it's actually kind of weird," Rane admitted, a little unnerved. "How much you look like me."

"Well, as I've said once before," said the woman, eyes twinkling, "I believe it would be more fitting to say that _you_ look like _me_ , and not the other way around."

Rane gaped her, bewildered. “Who _are_ you? And where am I? How did I get here?”

The woman watched her a moment, the wind teasing her long hair across her face, smiling a little. Then, abruptly, she lifted a hand and swept it toward the lights beyond the forest, aiming one long finger. Rane kept her eyes on the woman, still uneasy.

“I suppose I won’t vex you with my usual theatrics, Rane. That’s Ylle Thalas, capital of Elyfalume in the realm of Forodhaithas. The Elven city of your father’s birth, many long centuries past, if you wanted to know. You spent many days and nights there in another life, though perhaps you do not recall just yet.”

“ _What_ -?”

“ _Look_ ,” the woman ordered firmly, and with a gentle hand took Rane’s cheek and aimed her face toward where she was pointing. Her touch was cool and dry. “ _Look_ , if you would.”

Rane did, squinting at the blue fairy-lights, frowning. And abruptly, in a rush, she _did_ remember; the long, swaying grass near the horse pasture, the guards in their silver armor, the Council. It was like . . . well, like rediscovering something long lost, hidden in some dusty alcove. The sensation was dauntingly weird. She exhaled sharply, touching her forehead.

“Oh, holy _shit_. Ylle Thalas. Of _course_.”

"Holy shit, indeed." The woman had crossed her lean arms and was watching Rane shrewdly, the wind teasing the ends of her long hair. "Are you alright? I'm sure this is coming as a bit of a fright, remembering these little things."

"No, I _knew_!" Rane said, still rubbing her forehead. Her unease in the presence of this stranger was almost overshadowed by the shock that she had forgotten the Elven capital, somehow, a place where she'd spent much of her childhood. "It was _there_ , but I just . . . Christ, what the _fuck_?"

“Rane, look at me.” The woman took Rane’s forearm in her grasp, pulling her hand away from her face gently. Rane met her gaze, her brows knit. “You have forgotten Ylle Thalas because you are in a space betwixt spaces. It’s alright. You will remember it all, before the end of this night. I will help you, if I can. And when you wake, you will be in a different time and place, and these things may already be familiar to you once again. There's no reason to fret. These . . . these temporal changes, they tend to have this sort of effect.”

Rane jerked her arm away, looking at the woman in growing distress, her brow furrowed. “Who _are_ you?” she asked again, her voice rising, echoing flatly off the snowy landscape around them. "At least tell me who you are, after you skinned my sword off my belt and started talking crazy nonsense. Huh?"

The woman grasped Rane’s hand, and this time, when Rane tried to pull away, she was held fast. The woman's strength was breathtakingly large; Rane was strong, she had always been unnaturally strong, but for all her struggling the muscles in this woman's forearm did not even twitch. She only watched Rane calmly, her eyes bright and clear beneath the low red light, smiling a little, waiting for her to relax. Rane had the impression that she had kept this might under wraps until the moment when it was necessitated, perhaps so as not to frighten her. The idea was a little terrifying.

“You know me from long ago,” said the woman. “Do you remember? If you remember Ylle Thalas, surely you recall your teachings on Iluvatar, and on the song that kindled the universe."

"I've never met you before in my life." Rane glared up at the woman, still yanking at her trapped wrist, but it was like pulling at a vice, and the stranger gave no indication that she even noticed Rane's efforts to pull free. "This is a nightmare or something. You wouldn't look like me if this was real -"

"Rane Roth, you are a _peredhil_. Do you know that word, from before?”

"Let go -!"

"You know the tongue of your forefathers, certainly," The woman jerked her a little, making Rane's hair ripple over her forehead. "Sindarin, Quenya, Telerin? _Treneri'nin im ha lamb'o adar_! What did I say? Tell it back to me, out loud."

"Christ," said Rane, shaking her head, glaring at the woman. "You said 'I've heard you speak the tongues of your father,' I speak all three, yes, you're _hurting_ me -!"

" _Peredhil._ "

“Let me _go_ -!”

“ANSWER me, for we have not much time!” Her voice was suddenly sharp and authoritative, her eyes flashing, and Rane stilled, shocked by this sudden change. “You _must_ answer me for us to proceed! Now, do you know that word or not? ' _Peredhil_?' You must _speak_!”

Rane ceased struggling, staring into those eyes, so like hers except for that icy blue hue. “I know it.”

“And you know what it means? That word? You know _what you are_?”

“Half-Elf. An Ainur reborn.”

The woman relinquished her grasp on Rane abruptly, all intensity suddenly departed. She stepped back a pace and spread her arms ironically as if presenting herself, her beautiful face relaxing into a wry smile.

“I am that Ainur, Rane Roth. I am Elbereth Gilthoniel. I am _Fanuilos_. I am Varda.”

Rane looked at her for a long moment, her eyes skating over the woman’s face.

“Varda,” she said at last, faint.

Varda nodded at once, looking satisfied at this progression. "The name I like best, yes."

Rane looked at her a moment longer, her breath still quick, then her legs seemed to give out beneath her. She staggered backwards, sliding down the tree trunk behind her, boots sliding in the snow and grinding up dirt and chunks of grass along the way. Varda stepped forward and squatted on her hunkers before Rane, still smiling brilliantly. She grasped one of Rane’s ankles and shook it gently, looking very pleased.

"It never gets old, seeing you react that way. I suppose it's one of the better parts of all this mess."

"Varda." Rane was still gaping at her, the tendrils of hair hanging in her face a little dampened by the gently falling snow. Bits of it clung to her shoulders. "I feel like I know you."

"Ah!" Varda clapped her hands together once, looking delighted. "Well, you do! Quite more intimately than you might think. You remember me now, Rane Roth? Think back.”

Rane did, her lips pursed. It didn't take long. “After Sirius.”

“And before your death.”

Rane nodded again. “Yeah. And before that.”

“And now, much to my _infinite_ surprise -” Varda lifted her face to the snowy sky, smiling a little bitterly. “- I find myself back with you, back on this mortal plane. Imagine my astonishment, after all we'd been through, to discover I was once again sent here to be with you. _You_ , who by all accounts shouldn't be alive at all, let alone cavorting about with a horde of brigands some ninety-odd years of Men before you were even kindled.” She chuckled, shaking her lovely head. "Fate is strange indeed. _Nae_."

“I let you go.” Rane leaned forward, pulling her legs back toward her and curling them beneath her. “I let you go, to help Harry.”

Varda straightened a little, fixing her with a rather decorous smile. When she spoke, her voice was easy, but there was a sharp, dogmatic edge to it nevertheless.

“I cannot be dismissed at your fancy, Rane Roth. You forget who I am if you think so.” She relaxed, leaning back a little, letting her palms rest in the snow. If the cold bothered her, she didn't show it. "I chose to give you aid, and so aid was what you received. But that doesn't mean I'm a hound to set upon your whim, or a weapon to aim. I left you because I loved you, and because I could see that you wished for Harry Potter's safety more than you wished to keep your breath in your own chest. So help him I did, and his enemy fell for it."

She shook her head abruptly, as if tiring of this line of conversation.

“We must speak. I have brought you here for as long as I can muster, but this place is fickle, as you may recall. Lingering will not do for either of us. Eventually it will push us out, as any body pushes out a virus, for we are not meant to be here.”

“Ylle Thalas?” Rane could not conceal her surprise. This metropolis had never felt anything but welcoming to her, even in the direst tensions of her relations with the Elves. Varda shook her head.

“No. This is a pocket in time.” Varda glanced back toward the city. “Long before you were born. Long before your father, at that. I chose this place because it’s remote, and unwatched, and good for speaking. The quiet,” she added, gesturing around her, smiling. “The snow. Much of the time, in the early centuries of the lands of Forodhaithas, there was snowfall, before the world began to warm and change. There is nothing quite like the silence of new snowfall in the woodlands, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What happened, that night?” Rane asked her. She clasped her hands in her lap, the ends of her hair teased in the cool wind. “When I died?”

“Oh, well, I imagine you’ve worked it out for yourself by now, certainly,” said Varda, casting her a wry smile and leaning back on her elbows, quite at her ease.

Rane hesitated. "I think so, but I don't know if I'll ever get the chance to find out for sure again."

“You asked me to save your friend, and I chose to do so. Long years I had seen that moment coming, Rane, though I didn’t know who the young man would be until the morning after your Sirius passed. Then I knew.” She laughed, low. "I often thought you would bear a son, but it turned out that your son was already nearly a man, and not of your blood at all. Curious indeed."

Rane watched her for a long moment, swallowing thickly, then took the plunge. “Is he okay? Harry?”

“Well.” Varda smiled, leaning forward, fingering the snow idly. “ _Now_ , you mean? Harry Potter’s veriest ancestors are still plotting their courses, Rane. They may not have even emigrated yet, though family trees are not my -”

“That's not what I meant.” Rane was still looking at her raptly. “Is he okay? In . . . then?”

Varda watched her a moment longer, smiling, then nodded. “Forgive me my jest. This all becomes so _serious_ sometimes. Yes, Rane Roth, he is fine. Alive and well.”

Rane’s hands went to her face, covering her nose and mouth, her brows descending. For a moment she looked like nothing so much as a young girl. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“He’s okay?” she asked again, muffled behind her hands.

Varda nodded, and reaching out pulled Rane’s wrists away from her face, grasping her hands tightly in her own. She met Rane’s eyes, smiling, her eyes warm.

“Yes. He is happy. He married, had children. He’s an Auror, much like you were. He pines for you, but he's learned to move forward. He thinks on you often. The early years were . . . difficult for him. But they're long since passed.”

“Dad?”

“ _Varilterende_ lives and defends as he ever has. They dine together every fortnight, your father and Harry,” Varda added, smiling. “They often speak of you, Rane, and always fondly.”

Rane stifled a sob, staring toward the canopy, willing the tears standing in her eyes not to fall. She watched the wavering boughs above them and the snowflakes drifting idly down, her brows low over her eyes. Varda watched her, perceptive, her blue eyes bright in the dim red light.

“Ask what you truly wish, if you would, child. All the rest has led to her. I know your heart better than you know it yourself, I sometimes think.”

“Idril?” The word spoken aloud was almost enough to break her. The tears were slipping down her cheeks now freely. She feared the answer, and her heart was hammering beneath her chest, frightened.

“Idril is very well.” Varda smiled again, warm. “She stayed with Harry Potter after you were gone, just as you wished. He takes care of her. She attends Hogwarts, in the now you think of. She’s beautiful beyond measure. She sometimes feels guilt that she was not Sorted into the same House as her parents, but her friends comfort her. She is happy. And clever. She will go on to greater things, given time enough and space. And Harry Potter can give that to her. You chose her Godfather wisely.”

“Oh, God,” Rane said softly, one hand over her mouth. “I wish I could tell you how happy I am to hear that.”

“Well.” Varda placed her hands in her lap, watching Rane. “It is a long time away, and that world is gone from you now. We must discuss now what lies before you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Arthur Morgan.”

Rane wilted a little. In all this madness, in all these discussions about Sirius and Idril and Harry, she’d nearly forgotten about Arthur. The idea of him seemed . . . strange, like a distant dream, the same way Ylle Thalas had. She believed, for the first time, Varda’s insistence that this was a pocket in time. Everything outside of these moments seemed surreal, anesthetized, moving with the slow cadence of a narcotic in the bloodstream.

“You know about Arthur?”

Varda laughed. “Child,” she said, “I know the veriest fires of the farthest star from the farthest walks of life. Yes, I know about Arthur Morgan. I knew about him from the moment he was kindled in his mother’s belly. _However_ ," she added, looking a little amused, "knowing what you would mean to him someday in his manhood, and knowing how far you were from him in every direction within both time and space, well . . . that _was_ quite a riddle to me, yes. Until now."

"What d'you mean?" Rane was listening to this raptly, bewildered by this turn. "What does Arthur have to do with this?"

"Your soul traveled across nearly a century to find his arms," said Varda, smiling a little. "In the opposite direction, I might add. Do you not know?"

Rane snorted, frowning. "I love him, but he's dying."

"So are all who find their homes in this plane. He is not unique." Varda touched Rane's hand gently, meeting her eyes, looking terrible and lovely in the red light. "He leads you on to your next epistle. Or he does not. The road is forked and I cannot see past it."

" _What_?"

Varda shrugged, looking up at the falling snow with an expression of faint perplexity. "I do not understand many of these matters, Rane Roth. Much like you, I'm given only clues to a much larger puzzle." She sighed. "We are not passengers on this train, we're strapped to the front of it. I believe you understand."

"You're trying to say I don't really love Arthur, I just got dropped into his lap because of some higher power crap," said Rane flatly.

" _No_." Varda was shaking her head, looking amused. "That's not how love works, Rane. His heart called to yours, and yours to his, across _decades_ of time, _seas_ of time. Not even your own _death_ could stall it. Surely you can see how profound such a thing is. Surely you see that you must answer a call like that, no matter how it pains you."

"Even if he dies."

Varda nodded steadily. "Even then."

"To what _ends_?" Rane burst out, feeling exasperated. "To what _ends_ , though? So I can go through the same shit I went through with Sirius all over again? Because that sounds like a nightmare on loop, Varda, it really does."

Varda shrugged. "As I said, I don't understand many of these things."

"But you still follow blindly along."

"It's my nature." Varda spread her hands. "I'm only an Ainur. I am not Iluvatar Himself. But I trust him not to lead us astray, and what he commands, I obey. I'm just a messenger, Rane, powerful though I know the Eldar believe me to be. I do what I must."

Rane watched Varda for a long moment, then leaned forward again, meeting her eyes, hazel on blue. “How’d I get to Lemoyne? Why am I there? Really. Bullshit aside.”

Varda reached out and touched Rane’s cheek gently. “You are blessed and you are cursed,” she said softly. “You were not born to die.”

The wind was picking up around them now, collecting the dust of the fresh snow and whirling it into a tempest around them. Rane kept her eyes on Varda, her brows knitted.

“I want to save him from this.”

“You cannot save mortal men from their fate,” said Varda gently. “They must perish, one way or another.”

“Not him.”

“You would have said the same of Sirius Black, yet for all your powers you could not save his life.” Seeing Rane's shocked expression at this, Varda shook her head gently. "Some things are simply out of your hands, powerful though you are, Rane Roth."

“I won’t let him die.” Rane’s voice was fierce, her eyes flashing. The snow was flying around them now, madly. “I _won’t_.”

“This is your curse,” said Varda. Her voice was beginning to fade with the wind now. Her eyes were bright and glowing and blue beneath the madness. “This is your curse. You are a _peredhil_ , and you may never perish, but you _will_ die, and you _will_ lose those who you love, until there is no one but yourself. This is your curse, and your blessing. Use it well, and grow. You're a sapling, Rane, but you will be a redwood before long.”

Rane rose, lifting an arm against the wild wind. “Varda!”

“This is your curse,” Varda’s voice came, only light now against the howling wind. “But you might break it.”

“VARDA!”

The snow swept up around Rane, enveloping all in white, and then she knew no more.


	40. Beaver Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadie, John and Rane arrive back at camp

_Delivered from the blast_   
_The last of a line of lasts_   
_The pale princess of a palace cracked_   
_And now the kingdom comes_   
_Crashing down undone_   
_And I am a master of a nothing place._

**\- Smashing Pumpkins**

_________________

The three of them tore down camp with exaggerated care at John’s insistence the following morning; he spoke of the Murfree Brood, the same as Arthur had a few nights before when she had spent the evening with him in Saint Denis. Rane pulled down their tent and kicked over the fire’s remnants as instructed, but her eyes were far away, her face lax and expressionless for much of these efforts. The dream she'd had the night before lingered with her like a pall, and though she could remember the last time she'd dreamed of Varda - after Sirius's death, and only a few hours before her own - she didn't remember feeling the same sense of disassociation, of dread. The finer details were beginning to slip away, like sand between her fingers, but the words Varda had said rang in her mind again and again. She had been just as vague and unhelpful before, but this . . . this seemed different.

_His heart called to yours, and yours to his, across decades of time, seas of time. Even your own death could not stall it._

_We are not passengers on this train, we're strapped to the front of it._

_The road is forked. I cannot see past it._

" _Rane_."

Rane jumped as if goosed, looking around. Sadie and John were both staring at her. Sadie was grinning.

"Where the hell you at? You been stampin' on that fire for five damn minutes now."

"It's out," John added, looking amused.

Rane looked down at the scattered remnants of the bonfire beneath her boot and cleared her throat. "Sorry. Woolgathering."

"Well, gather wool on your own time, let's get movin'."

It wasn’t until they were on the road, John riding back-to on Eli again, that she spoke at last of her own volition.

“Where are we headed, Sadie? You got a bearing? Not back to Shady Belle, I’d assume.”

Sadie glanced back at her over one shoulder, hips rocking with her horse’s cadence, looking surprised, her blonde hair wavering beneath her hat as the wind passed over them. “So you ain’t lost your voice after all, huh? Hell, we can't get ya to shut up most of the time.”

"Look, John," said Rane, glancing back at him. "She thinks she's funny. It's cute."

"Oh, hush. Dutch found us a little place called Beaver Hollow while back, for just such an occasion,” Sadie replied, turning back to the road. “Not too terribly far, long as we don’t run into any of them Murfree sons of bitches. I only got a couple more rounds in these guns and Johnny back there ain’t armed with nothin’ ‘cept his skivvies, so you’re gonna have to whip out that sword and make it a fancy fight if we get set on. So keep your eyes open and quit starin’ into outer space, would ya?”

Rane snorted derisively. John, holding her waist, leaned toward her, speaking low over her shoulder.

“You okay there? You sound a little down in the mouth.”

Rane waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, just . . . weird dreams last night, is all.”

John’s breath was hot on the cup of her ear another moment, the sound vital and close, and then it vanished as he leaned back, succumbing to this non-answer. “Alright. Just makin’ sure.”

“Are _you_ okay?” Rane turned her head halfway toward him, her hair whipping out behind her in the wind generated by Eli’s trot. She wasn't terribly keen on breaching the conversation they'd had last night, but perhaps it was better to get it out of the way. John, however, was quite inscrutable when he spoke, betraying nothing at all even to Rane's incisive ear.

“Fine. Ready for a change of clothes.”

They rode in silence until they reached Beaver’s Hollow, a place Rane immediately didn’t care for. It was wide open, nothing more than a clearing before a rocky overhang, shot through with tall oaks and red soil. It reminded Rane violently of her earliest childhood in the Carolinas, and that disturbed her most of all, for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on. The camp was still in the early stages of assembly, most of the camp’s constituents aiding in this effort, and the smell of sweat and campfire smoke and cigarettes was strong even in the mountain wind.

"Christ, this place is fucking grim," she remarked, low, as they rode in. "Looks like something out of a McCarthy novel."

"Whatever you say," said John, hopping down off Eli and offering Rane a hand down. She took it, sliding down, her boots wafting up puffs of dust. "Thanks for the lift."

" _Are_ you okay?" Rane asked him again, watching his face closely, one hand on Eli's stout neck. John met her gaze, his smile fading a little.

"Rane -"

"JOHN!"

They both turned. Abigail was rushing toward John, and a moment later she flung her arms around him, her eyes squeezed shut. After a moment she broke away from him and began striding toward Rane, her eyes bright.

"Thank you," she said softly. "Rane, thank you. Truly."

Rane flapped a hand, unsmiling and a little uncomfortable. "It's no big deal. I'm just glad he's squared up and safe."

"Yeah, well." Abigail shuffled a little, wringing her hands and looking equally ill at ease. "I know I ain't been very nice to ya, and I thought you oughta know I appreciate you gettin' him outta that prison. For Jack's sake," she added hastily.

"Like I said. No sweat." Rane was beginning to unbuckle Eli's tack, not terribly thrilled to accept this diffident requital. "He's gonna have to work on not getting arrested, that's all."

"Well." Abigail placed her hands on her hips, watching Rane. "Hey, Arthur's here."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He ain't quit talkin' about you since we got here."

"I'm flattered," said Rane dryly, pulling the saddle off Eli laboriously and dropping it onto the red earth.

"Rane -" Abigail moved forward and snatched Rane's wrist. Rane looked at her, surprised. "Lemme say somethin'."

Rane eyed her uncertainly, then gently withdrew her hand from Abigail's grasp. "What?"

"Do you _know_ how Arthur feels for you?" Abigail asked, her voice low and strained. "Do ya know? He ain't keepin' it from ya?"

Rane met her gaze guardedly. She nodded.

Abigail pursed her lips. "Good," she said. "I'm glad. That man don't need no more heartache. That's all I wanna say on it."

Rane nodded too, her face impassive. "Go see to your man. We're all squared away."

She turned before Abigail could say anything more, taking Eli's bridle and leading him toward the hitch, wanting out of the situation.

Rane was still tying Eli to the hitching post near the front of camp when Arthur spied her. He was standing at Dutch’s side, a cigarette dangling from his lips, together with Micah and two hangdog men Rane didn’t recognize. Their eyes met across camp, Rane's over Eli's back, Arthur's over Dutch's shoulder. At the sight of her he brushed past Dutch roughly, pulling the smoke from his lips and flinging it away, and began toward her at once, his gait quick, arms swinging at his sides, not quite running. Rane darted around Eli and made for him too, and before Dutch had even moved she had reached Arthur and leaping up had thrown her arms around him, kissing him fiercely and knocking his hat askew, eyes squeezed shut. He lifted her a few inches off the ground, his breath rough against her mouth. The taste of him, the smell of him, was wonderful, familiar, quickening her heartbeat, warming her from a deep place within. She felt like nothing so much as a junkie getting a fix in that moment; what she wanted was to whisk him off someplace private and indulge in him alone, to touch his face and stare into his eyes and feel his closeness.

“You goddamned idiot,” he muttered, and hugged her to him, squeezing her body against his rough vest. The sensation of his firm chest beneath his clothes was dizzying to her, making her breath hitch a little in her throat. “You goddamned idiot, I was so worried for you, gone so damn long. I kept thinkin' the worst -”

Rane grasped his cheeks in her hands, her eyes roving over his features hungrily. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“ _Me_?” Arthur laughed, smoothing back her hair from her temple, his eyes darting over her face. “ _Me_ , hurt? I’m _fine_ , girl, what about _you_? You’re the one bustin’ fellers outta jail! Oh, darlin’.” He leaned forward, kissing her mouth again, his brow knitted. “Girl, I missed the Christ outta you, you’re a sight for sore eyes -”

"People are looking -"

"Fuck it, let 'em."

"You shaved," Rane remarked, stroking his smooth cheeks and beaming up at him. "And you slicked your hair back."

He laughed, his eyes turning up at the corners. "You don't like it?"

"No, no, it's nice! It's awesome!" Rane planted several kisses on his mouth again, still grasping his face. "Jesus Christ, how is it I missed you this much just since -?"

“JOHN!” Dutch’s voice was strident. Rane glanced around Arthur at him, startled. He was glaring at John, who was embracing Abigail nearby in his prison stripes. “What are you _doin’_ here?”

John broke away from Abigail, walking toward Dutch. “Good to see you too, partner.”

“I meant that I ain’t sent for you yet!” Dutch’s voice was low, but his eyes were positively alight with fury. Rane felt a tinge of unease at the sight of him. His fists were clenched at his sides. Here, again, was the man who had chided her playfully on a ledge in Guarma and murdered a stranger in cold blood ten minutes later, as unpredictable as the sea. “How the _hell_ are you -?”

“I went and got him,” said Rane, breaking apart from Arthur and taking a step forward. Dutch turned his eyes on her, his gaze imperious. “I felt like we needed to get in front of it.”

“You _felt_ that way.” Dutch eyed her coldly.

"That's right." Rane positioned herself a little in front of John and Abigail, staggering her feet and looking squarely at Dutch. "I felt that way, yeah."

“And on whose authority do you act, girl? Surely not on mine, because I ain’t said boo to you since that night you tried to wheedle me into a bed with ya.”

Rane flushed a little, but her gaze didn’t waver. “They were gonna execute him.”

Dutch advanced on her, his face coming within inches of hers. He was much taller than her, and she shrunk a bit beneath his imperious gaze in spite of herself, meeting his angry eyes.

“You defied me again, girl, and I asked you not to do that anymore. Matter of fact, we had a good long talk about it, as I recall. I thought we had us an understanding, but it appears I might have been mistaken.”

“Dammit, Dutch, she didn't do it to piss you off, she just did it to help me to -!”

Dutch waved a hand. “John Marston, I ain’t talkin’ to you.”

“I couldn’t just let him die, he’s got a wife and a kid,” said Rane, not flagging beneath his aggressive advancements. She jerked her head toward John. “So here he is.”

"So here he is." Dutch was nodding, his gaze dark and furious on hers. Rane met it defiantly. "Here he is. Because you _felt_."

"You want me to take him to Sisika and hand him back over? Is it too much of an inconvenience?"

"Rane." This voice belonged to Charles, some ways back, his eyes dark and worried. "Easy, now."

"You gonna let that little girl talk to you that way?" said Micah from behind Dutch, hands in his pockets, watching this exchange with a smile. "Ain't the Van der Linde I know."

"Micah, for once in your life, shut the hell up," said Arthur, low. He, too, was watching Dutch and Rane, wary and stiff, his blue eyes acute beneath his hat.

Dutch shook his head, his mouth pulled down into a sneer, eyeing Rane. “Oh, girl. You’re tryin’ to cross me, and I wanna let you know now that it ain’t a good idea -”

“And letting John swing is? Letting Jack lose his dad and Abigail lose her husband? _That’s_ a good idea?” Rane was not in a quailing mood, not even beneath the tall, angry man before her. "How did you arrive at that one? Because that's some long division like I ain't never seen before, Dutch, I mean the mental gymnastics here are fucking impressive. There must have been a lot of hurdles on the way there and you jumped over every single one of them."

Dutch’s arm twitched, as if he were considering hitting her. Rane didn’t flinch, but her hand went to the hilt of her sword, and she met his gaze steadily. She was happy to catch a fist from him. Hell, she was happy to come to blows outright. She welcomed a straightforward fight in these sorts of situations, as opposed to this verbal foxtrot. Her tolerance for these things had thinned over the years.

“Don’t you lift that damn hand,” Arthur said from behind Rane, watching Dutch. His voice was low and dangerous. He had seen this gesture for what it was, too, and his blue eyes were deadly below his hat. “Don’t you fuckin’ do it.”

“They were gonna _hang_ him, Dutch!” Abigail cried, still clinging to John’s arm, glaring at Dutch. “ _Hang_ him! There weren’t no _time_ to fuss about with -!”

“Did _you_ have a hand in this?” Dutch bellowed, rounding on her. Abigail quailed at once, falling behind John, her blue eyes widening in surprise. “ _Did_ ya? Is _that_ why this fool went rushin’ off without my say-so, Abigail? You thought you could just point her and aim without mentioning it to me? _That_ it?”

“You gonna talk about me like I’m a Smith and Wesson while I’m standing right here in front of you?” Rane asked him loudly, flaring.

Dutch turned back to her, his eyes flashing, and grasped a handful of her shirt in his hand, jerking her roughly back.

"Hey, HEY!" Arthur said loudly, alarmed.

“I’m gonna talk about anybody I damn well please anyplace I feel the urge,” Dutch told Rane. He released her shirt and shoved at her shoulder with the tips of his fingers, sending her back another staggering pace. “What are you gonna do about it? Stab me to damn death? Curse me?”

“I might could do, yeah,” said Rane softly, glaring at him. Her hand was grasping the helm of her sword now, white-knuckled. “Quick work. I won’t even send you the bill. Consider it on the house, motherfucker.”

"You gonna talk to _me_ like that?" Dutch roared, shoving her back again, hard. "Like THAT? _ME_?"

"You need me to speak up for the folks in BACK, ASSHOLE?"

"Arthur, _grab_ her, will ya?" John hissed. " _Somebody_ grab her, before she -"

“Hey -” Arthur snatched at her shoulder. “Quit it, now that’s enough -!”

Dutch was still glaring at her as Arthur dragged her back by the scruff of her shirt. His hand was resting on the butt of his gun now. Micah, behind him, was fingering his as well. The camp had frozen around them to watch this exchange, bewildered and curious.

“You don't seem to know who you're talkin' to. I’d lay your scrawny ass low before you reached down, little girl.”

Rane jerked free of Arthur, her lips thin, glaring at Dutch insolently. “You wanna fuck around and find out?”

“I damn well might if you keep on mouthin’ _off_ -!”

"COME ON, THEN, FUCKER!" Rane shouted. Dutch pulled his pistol and aimed it at her, and Micah did the same. "COME _ON!_ TRY IT! I DARE YOU!"

"No, goddammit! NO!" Arthur was yanking Rane back with both hands, his hat falling back on his neck. "Alright, now, everybody just calm the hell _down_ and quit actin' like a bunch of - !"

"YOU WANNA SEE WHAT I'M MADE OF, GIRL?" Dutch roared. He brandished his pistol toward her, the barrel flashing in the low light.

"GO ON, SEE WHAT HAPPENS!"

"WHAT'LL HAPPEN IS THIS BULLET WILL GO RIGHT THROUGH YOUR PRETTY FUCKIN' _HEAD_! _THAT'S_ WHAT'LL HAPPEN!"

"Rane -" Charles had stepped to the fore and was pulling Rane back alongside Arthur. She bucked against them, breathing harshly, her shoulders straining. "Rane, knock it off, that's _enough_."

"Nah, you boys let her _go_!" Dutch cried expansively, grinning. "Let her go! Let her find out! Maybe she needs a feller to knock her around a little bit, remind her who's -!"

" _Dutch_!" This was Mary-Beth, who was staring at all this in genuine fright from some ways behind John and Abigail. Her voice was pitchy and alarmed. "Dutch, _stop_! Listen to yourselves! Jesus! Have you all lost your minds?"

"She's right, that’s _enough_ , goddammit!” Arthur stepped past Rane, pushing her behind him with one hand, meeting Dutch's gaze, his eyes angry. “You ain’t got no cause shoutin’ at her like that, Rane and Sadie did us a favor, gettin' John out, they didn't do it to piss you off! All this sparrin' and shit-talkin' has gotta stop -!”

“A _favor_?" Dutch approached Arthur until they were chest to chest. “What happens when springin' John brings the law down on all our heads, huh, what _then_? We gonna lay back and let your pretty little girlfriend handle all our problems some more? Huh? Or are you gonna do it for us, Arthur Morgan, after I put a hole in her forehead?”

“You ain’t puttin’ a hole in NOTHIN’!” Arthur shouted, suddenly strident. “ _Listen_ to yourself, Dutch! What the hell's wrong with you? You're talkin' -!”

“So, Dutch! Did ya miss me?”

They all spun around. Molly O’Shea, filthy and disheveled, was staggering into camp, closely tailed by Pearson. She was staggering, her eyes red-rimmed and her usually elegant red hair trailing off in all directions. She was glaring at Dutch with a fiery hatred, and Rane felt a little swoop of fear alight in her chest at the sight of this.

“Oh, shit,” she said, soft. She grasped at Arthur’s wrist, all her ire and fury evaporating. The way Dutch was right now, worked up, full of piss and vinegar and halfway crazy -

“I found her drunk in a pub in Saint Denis,” Pearson was saying, a little winded. Molly had stumbled ahead of him, her eyes on Dutch, fierce and furious. “Thought I’d bring her back here so she could answer for her absence, Dutch.”

Dutch turned his eyes on Molly, the terrible anger in his black eyes still discernible, in sharp contrast with the broad, winsome smile he aimed at her. “Oh, you’re back, how jolly, Miss O’Shea -!”

“It’s _Molly_ , you sack o’ shit -!”

“Back and drunk,” Dutch amended, glaring down at her, his gaze cold.

“Oh, who made _you_ the master? The Lord God almighty?” Molly crowed, circling, throwing her arms into the air. She was, Rane realized, very drunk indeed; her pupils were as big as coins and her gait was unsteady and vacillating. Even her voice lilted wildly, and with an accent as thick as hers it was a feat to be able to tell. “I won’t be ignored, Dutch Van der Linde -!”

“Molly, calm down.” Dutch was watching her with an expression of grim disgust, but he was making no move to comfort her or take her away, and Rane felt her regard for him slip another notch. “Calm yourself, miss -!”

“You’re clouded! Yer judgement is clouded! By that WITCH!” Molly threw a hand toward Rane suddenly, stumbling, her eyes wild. “That BLOODY WITCH FROM HELL! You’ve been WITCHED, you old dumb BASTARD, by a pretty face, a _leannán sídhe,_ and now you’re about as CLOUDED AS THEY COME -!”

"Molly." Rane was watching her warily, both hands extended, palms down. "Please, just -"

"SHUT UP!" Molly shrieked at her. "SHUT UP, CREATURE, DON'T YE DARE SPEAK TO ME!" She drew a breath, leaning forward, the cords standing out in her neck, and then, her voice rising to a scream: "WITCH! _WIIIIITCH_!"

This done, she forked the evil eye at Rane and spat between her fingers, staggering, her green eyes wild. Rane recoiled at this, frowning, her hands falling back to her sides.

“MISS O’SHEA!” Dutch said loudly. “ _Relax_ , I said -!”

Molly got into his face, quite unabashed, eyes flashing. “I don’t owe you _nothin_ ’! NOTHIN’! I spit in yer eye!”

"Will somebody calm her down, please?" said Susan, looking irritably at the men watching this display without intervening. "Arthur, John, one of you fools wanna do somethin' besides stand there dribblin' and rubberneckin'? We done enough shoutin' in this camp for one damn -!"

“I TOLD THEM!”

A silence fell among the little crowd gathered around this display. Dutch’s face fell at once. The change was dramatic; irritated, annoyed, still pissy from his argument with Rane, then suddenly . . . homicidal rage. In the space of a heartbeat. Rane felt her throat tighten at the sight of it. This was Guarma all over again. Arthur, at her side, clearly saw it, too; he moved a step in front of her, pressing her behind him a little with the flat of his hand on her hip, tense and watchful.

“I’m sorry?” said Dutch, his voice deadly quiet.

“I TOLD THEM!” Molly went on. She was far too drunk to see the dangerous way Dutch’s eyes were flashing now, certainly. “I told ‘em and I’d tell ‘em again! Now that I’ve got God’s EAR -!”

“TOLD WHO?” Dutch roared.

“Mr. Milton and Mr. Ross, about the bank robbery!” Molly went on, heedless. She was gesticulating wildly. “And I wanted ‘em to kill ya! Hear me? KILL YA!”

“You WHAT?”

Dutch had drawn his pistol and aimed it at Molly in the space of a heartbeat. Arthur moved forward at last, leaving Rane’s side and grasping Dutch’s shoulder, speaking low into his ear. He'd hoped that Dutch would deescalate himself, but it was clear to him now that this wasn't going to happen. After John getting busted and Rane bucking up, Molly's sudden resurgence had the makings of a perfect storm, and Arthur didn't like the empty, manic look in his eyes.

“Dutch, now don’t do nothin’ stupid -”

“I _LOVED_ you, ya goddamned _bastard_!” Molly shouted at Dutch, her green eyes filling with tears. “Go on, SHOOT ME! GO ON!”

“She’s crazy, she ain’t worth it,” Arthur said softly, his voice low. Rane watched this silently, her heart racing, eyes flicking between Molly and Dutch. “She’s drunk and crazy, Dutch -”

“Oh, you ain’t so big _now_ , are ya?” Molly cried.

“QUIET!” Arthur shouted, casting her a dire look, then turned back to Dutch. “Listen, she’s a fool, she ain’t worth it -”

“You know the RULES!” Dutch said loudly. The gun in his hand was trembling a little. "THERE'S _RULES_ , ARTHUR!"

"Dutch." Rane's voice was barely more than a whisper. Her hand was on the wand in her pocket, her grip tight, and her heart was racing. "Dutch, _don't_ -"

There was an ear-shattering crash as a shot rang out. Rane, fumbling, cast a hasty Shielding spell between Dutch and Molly, her wand whirling in her hand, but it was futile; the bullet that demolished Molly's chest didn't come from him at all. A massive, grisly hole opened up in Molly's shirt, spraying blood and shards of bone in an arc. Rane, shocked, staggered back a step, her wand faltering, eyes wide and mouth falling open. Abigail uttered a low scream, jumping, her hands clutching at her face. Arthur, still at Dutch's side, jolted, covering his mouth with his forearm in shock.

Susan Grimshaw stood there, a smoking shotgun in her hands. Molly wavered before Dutch a moment longer, her face fixed into an expression of surprise that would follow her down to her grave, then fell onto her back in the dirt, dead. The gunshot echoed across the land, falling to a mutter and then into silence. At length the only sound was Rane and Abigail, both breathing harshly behind their hands.

“She knew the rules,” said Miss Grimshaw loudly, looking around her. “She knew 'em. Arthur, what the hell's the matter with you? You ain't so dumb as all that!"

Arthur said nothing. He, too, was staring down at Molly, his face long with shock. Susan turned from him impatiently.

"Mister Pearson, Mister Williamson, get this body outta here and burn it straightaway. And quit your lollygaggin’,” she added, glaring around at the wide-eyed faces surrounding her. “Get back to work! All of ya! Get back to work!”

Rane dragged her eyes away from Molly and let them linger on Dutch. What she saw there - utter, remorseless vacancy - filled her with even more dismay than Molly's murder had. She made a hoarse sound in her throat, bending over at the knees, her long hair hanging around her throat. After a moment she lost the struggle with her gorge and darting to the edge of camp vomited into the grass, coughing harshly. Arthur swept past Dutch, making for her.

"You're alright. Come on, now. Pull it back in, Rane." He touched her shoulder gently.

"Jesus Christ, he shared a _bed_ with her," Rane whispered, casting a look backwards at Dutch. He had walked away, still quite expressionless, convening with Micah some ways off. Molly was being dragged away unceremoniously by Pearson and Bill, one on each ankle, her limp hands trailing behind, but the pool of blood on the ground remained, shining and dark. "He shared a _bed_ with her, Arthur -!"

"I know it." Arthur pulled her up, placing a hand on the small of her back. "Come on. Let's take a ride, let's get outta here for a little bit. I need some air and I don't want you here with him alone right now."


	41. A Moment of Repose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Rane escape the tension of Beaver Hollow after Molly's death and enjoy a little peace and quiet

_You are my angel_   
_Come from way above to bring me love_   
_Her eyes, she's on the dark side_   
_Neutralize every man in sight._

**\- Massive Attack**

_______________________

Arthur saddled Eli for Rane, not out of gallantry but because she seemed far too distracted to do it herself. She was staring toward Dutch and Micah at the far end of camp, her arms wrapped around her lean torso, brows knitted and mouth pursed, paying little attention. Eli was none too pleased with this development and bore it with grim patience, his ears pinned back, nostrils flaring. Whatever else this horse was, he had no love for Arthur Morgan. As Arthur pulled the belt tight against Eli’s belly, he reached back at last and snapped at Arthur’s thigh.

“ _Christ_!” Arthur stumbled back, both hands palms-out in the air. “Alright, alright, _fine_ , I’m just dressin’ ya, you damned asshole.”

Eli snorted. Arthur turned, moving off, scowling.

“Rane, you’re gonna have to fix him the rest of the way,” he said, turning and making for his own horse, shaking his head and palming his hat back. “That horse don’t want me nowhere near him.”

“Eli, please don’t be a dick to Arthur,” said Rane, making for him, and Eli’s ears relaxed at once at her advance. She took his face in her hands for a moment, stroking his forehead. “ _Gi’melin. Ava queta, ava queta, melda taru_. I know he’s scary-looking but he’s not so bad.”

Eli whickered gently, nuzzling her. Rane placed a final kiss on his nose, tugging at his mane, then slung her leg up and mounted him in a swift motion, reeling him around. Arthur, who was mounting his own horse, watched this wryly.

“Why don’t he like me none?”

“I dunno. Jealous, probably. Maybe it’s rubbing off.” Rane kicked Eli into a trot. “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here before I throw up again.”

“Where are you two goin’?”

Both Rane and Arthur turned in their respective saddles. Dutch was striding forward, brows knit, closely tailed by Micah. Rane found that she could hardly even look at him without feeling a surging rage within her chest. She was very aware of her heart, abruptly thudding beneath her shirt.

“Out,” said Arthur. He cast about, then added, “hunting.”

Dutch slowed to a halt, eyeing them both. “Well, get back here soon,” he said, his voice low and a little gloating. “It’s gettin’ dark earlier now and there’s Broods about. And mind your little lassie,” he added, tipping Rane a wink. “Don’t want her getting into no more trouble today.”

Rane met his eyes, unsmiling, then pulled Eli around without a word and started away. Arthur cleared his throat.

“See ya in a little bit, Dutch.” He kept his voice light, not betraying the bone-deep dismay he was still feeling toward the man. “We’ll bring us back somethin’ for Pearson to cook down.”

He had to spur his horse a little hard to catch up to Eli, who was cantering down the woodlands, Rane’s face pointed away from camp. Dutch watched their exit with a suspicious eye, frowning, both hands crammed into his jeans pockets.

“I can’t even look at him,” said Rane when Arthur had finally paced her. The wind was teasing her long hair back, and her brows were low and drawn. “I can’t even _look_ at him, Arthur, after what he did back there. Getting into my face like a crazy person. And then Molly -”

“Well, in all fairness, you were gettin’ into his face too,” said Arthur, shrugging. “And Dutch didn’t shoot Molly, that was Susan.”

Rane scoffed, laughing. Her voice was light, but Arthur was too perceptive to miss the grim set of her mouth and the pallor of her skin. She was disturbed to the core of her. He didn’t need to see her puking her guts out into the bushes to know it.

“You think this is funny? She couldn’t have been more than thirty, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed. “No, I don’t think it’s funny, but hell, Molly wasn’t ever even _nice_ to you, Rane. Shit, she spent the last few minutes there screamin’ at you like a banshee -”

“Yeah, well that doesn’t mean I wanted to see her blown away like Bugsy fucking Siegal, does it?” said Rane sharply, glaring over at him. “Christ, she was young and stupid and in love with Dutch! She was in love with him and she acted like a dumbass! Who hasn’t done _that_?” She palmed her chest, glaring at him. “ _I’m_ in love! With _you_! Would _you_ have watched somebody put a pair of shotgun shells in my chest over it, Arthur, without batting a fucking eye?”

“You know the answer without me havin’ to say,” said Arthur, low, feeling a touch of nausea at the idea of it. “Don’t even say somethin’ like that, I don’t like to think about it.”

“But he just _watched_!” Rane’s voice had taken on a slightly wild tone now. Her eyes were wide, her long hair wavering before her face. “Christ, he just stood there and watched! I mean, did you _see_ it? There were little pieces of her . . . of her _sternum_ in the dirt -!”

She gagged low in her throat, hoarse, slinging an arm over her mouth, paling a little. Arthur looked over at her, hips rocking with his horse’s cadence, frowning.

“Rane, I know that was tough to watch but hell, you’ve stabbed folks through the chest in front of me and walked away cool as a cucumber, why is this thing with Molly botherin’ you so much? I don’t know I understand why you’re so bent outta shape.”

“You don’t know that you understand why watching a woman getting her guts blown out the back of her is disturbing to me? Someone I knew? Who was drunk and unarmed and didn’t deserve it?”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck with one gloved hand. “That ain’t quite how I meant.”

“Because -” Rane sighed roughly, shaking her head, gripping her stomach. She pointed toward the river beyond them. “Can we stop? Can we sit over there on the bank for a little bit? I’m sick again.”

“Yeah, sure, of course, are you gonna -?”

Rane answered by leaping off Eli mid-canter, her hair flying, and rushing off into the brush threw her head into the bushes and heaved her guts again. Arthur pulled his horse to a halt, watching her worriedly. Eli had come to a prancing stop as well, ears pricked toward her.

“Ugh.” Rane leaned up, one hand on her trim waist, rubbing at her mouth restively. “Christ. I’m thirsty.”

“You alright?”

“No.” Rane ran both hands through her hair. “Not really.”

“Alright, well let’s go sit down. Grab Eli and walk him the rest of the way, horseback ain’t no good when you don’t feel well.” Arthur slipped off his mount and took the bridle. “Try to keep the rest of it down if ya can.”

  
  


THEY hitched the horses on a tree near the wake, and Arthur slipped the blanket from beneath Eli’s saddle (Eli pinned his ears and glared imperiously for this event, tail twitching), laying it on the sand. Rane had to excuse herself once more, this time leaning over the rock wall nearby, clearly trying to keep her hawking noise to a minimum.

“Sorry,” she said as she drew near, a little pink-faced, looking rueful and wiping at her mouth. “That was gross.”

Arthur said nothing, only handed her a flask, his eyes on the water, smoking idly. She took it gratefully, throwing back a mouthful, swishing it around a moment and spitting it onto the sand.

“Thanks,” she said, handing it back. “I don’t like throwing up in front of cute boys.”

“You got a funny sense of chastity about ya, honey,” Arthur remarked, taking the flask and stowing it in his pocket. “Sit down and take a minute.”

Rane did, leaning back and curling her legs beneath her. She leaned against Arthur, putting her head on his shoulder, and he strung the arm holding his smoke around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. It was a small gesture, almost involuntary, but Rane recognized the subconsciousness in it, as if they’d known one another for years. The familiarity of him, the closeness, was abruptly very evident to her, and she relaxed against him, feeling a touch strange. She had felt this intimately comfortable with Sirius eventually, but it had taken months to arrive there; Arthur, however, had taken to her like a duck to water, despite the boorish, slightly clumsy way he seemed to approach women in general. It was as if the place where Rane ended and Arthur began had started to blur, and it made her feel safe to recognize it, even after the events of the morning.

“I just . . . man, I know she was a bitch,” said Rane, low, fingering the material of his jeans with one hand. “But that was so horrible. Shooting her like that.”

“Yeah. It was horrible, all right.” Arthur put his cigarette to his lips, reaching the hand across her shoulders to his mouth and drawing her nearer to his chest in order to do so. Rane felt his heart beating quickly against his vest for a brief moment as he did, the rough, lovely scent of him intensifying, and then he’d relaxed, blowing a plume of smoke out into the air. “She was pissy sometimes but she wasn’t all bad, she was just a fool about Dutch. Did her in at the end.”

“His face.” Rane shook her head against Arthur’s shoulder. “Did you see his face?”

“Yeah.” Arthur was chewing his lip, staring off broodingly.

“Like looking through the window of an empty house. Like she didn’t mean shit to him.”

“Rane, I hate to say it, but she probably didn’t.” He sighed. “That’s just Dutch, he’s got his priorities. He don’t let himself get too near to women unless it’s to fuck, and that’s what Molly was, she was runnin’ with us to warm up his bed. Whatever she thought he might feel for her at the end there, she was likely just kiddin’ herself. He ain’t let himself get that close to a lady since Annabelle.”

“But he loved Annabelle.” Rane felt a powerful need to verify this, for some reason. “He loved her. He loved _somebody_. I’ve heard him talk about her, it sounds like he did.”

Arthur made an uncertain gesture, waving a hand toward the gentle tide, the cigarette dangling from his full lower lip. “Y’know, between you and me, I used to think so, but now . . . now I ain’t sure anymore. Sometimes I think he looks back on her with a sorta lens in front of him, like . . . I dunno, like he likes to _think_ he loved her, and that’s why he was so beat up after Colm killed her, but honestly . . . I just can’t tell anymore if it’s the real Dutch or just his fool idealism.”

“Would he have let someone gun her down?”

“If he thought she’d betrayed him? Yeah, he might’ve. Maybe. Hell, I dunno, that’s been years ago now.” Arthur exhaled twin streams of smoke through his nostrils, the tendrils wavering past the brim of his hat. “He’s funny about a lot of stuff, but he don’t get worked up about nothin’ quite like loyalty. Him and his damn rules.”

Rane sighed. She was caressing the palm of his hand with her fingers, her legs stretched out before her, watching the sun glancing off the water.

“What a clusterfuck,” she murmured, low.

“Dutch is a tough guy to understand, Rane.” Arthur glanced down his chin at her. “He ain’t simple and stupid like me.”

Rane scoffed. “You’re not simple and stupid.”

“Well.” Arthur sighed, rubbing his face with his palm, and drew deep on his smoke again. “I ain’t got the same -”

He broke out into rough coughing abruptly. Rane reached up, plucked the smoke from his mouth and flicked it away.

“Maybe the time for stogies has sort of passed, dollface.”

“Old habits,” Arthur conceded, clutching his chest. He glanced down at her, his eyes bloodshot and watering but still amused, smirking. “I like that.”

“You like what?”

“When ya call me names.”

“Call you names? What, are you into some kinky shit or something? You want me to tie you up next time too? Berate you a little bit?” Rane mimed the sound of a whip, slapping his thigh. “‘You’ve been a very naughty boy, Arthur Morgan, and now you must be punished’ - that kinda thing?”

Arthur flushed crimson, tilting his hat down a little. He leaned back, unwinding his arm from her shoulders, smirking. “Goddamned idiot. That ain’t what I meant.”

Rane reached up and tipped the brim of his hat back, kissing the corner of his mouth. “It was a joke, not a dick, don’t take it so hard.”

“You oughta be a preacher, mouth like that.”

“If you say so.”

Rane was stroking the long muscle of his thigh beneath his jeans, looking up at him. He turned his face down toward her, eyes flitting over her features. A moment of silence passed between them, each looking at the other unabashedly, both indulging in their closeness. Arthur reached down and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead gently.

“It’s been a fucked up little afternoon so far but I’m still glad you’re back. I don’t much care for bein’ away from ya.”

“Did you miss me, Mister Hot-Shot Morgan?”

“ _Yeah_ , I missed ya. Kind of a stupid question is that, anyway?”

Rane leaned up and kissed him, letting her mouth linger on his, and looked into his eyes as she drew away. They were so strange. Had she ever seen eyes that color before? She didn’t think so. And she had grown up among Elves.

“You have beautiful eyes, you know it?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Arthur countered, smirking. He was trying to pull away, as he always did when Rane complimented him. “Here she comes, the fast talker -”

“Can I look at them?” Rane turned his face back to hers gently with the palm of her hand, stroking his unshaven cheek with one thumb, and he met her gaze reluctantly, his eyes meeting hers. They were the color of the ocean, turquoise and green and shot through with gold, prismatic and vivid beneath his lashes even a trifle bloodshot. 

“Okay, you looked.”

She felt him trying to pull away, his gaze faltering, uncomfortable with this sudden display of physical veneration, and Rane released him, settling back down. He was a lot of things, this guy, but graceful about accepting flattery was definitely not one of them.

“Where were your parents from? Never seen eyes like yours before.”

Arthur shrugged, his ears reddening a little. “Shit, I dunno. My daddy was Welsh. Dunno ‘bout my mama.”

“Welsh, huh.” Rane leaned back on her elbows. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a taffy. ‘Course, I wouldn’t have taken John for a Scot, either.”

“The hell’s wrong with Scots? Mary-Beth is a Scot, she’s alright.”

“Ach, haud yer _wheesht_ , ye dinnae ken, ye daft skunner!” Rane replied, putting on a fairly passable Scottish accent. “We’re all Jock Tamson’s bairns, innit, pure dead brilliant tha _hooool_ lot of us!”

Arthur burst out into a ream of genuine, hearty laughter at this, leaning back and slapping his knee. It did Rane’s heart good to hear, especially after the grim events of the morning. She was suddenly very grateful for his presence, and for his insistence that they get away from camp for a while. This little diversion had done wonders for her sanctity of mind.

“What would your poor Welsh father think if he knew you were marrying a half-breed heathen, pray tell? Don’t you think he’d be happier if you settled down with a nice Methodist girl?”

Arthur shook his head, still laughing a little, wiping at his eyes. “I couldn’t give a shit what my old man would think of ya, Rane, he was a lousy bastard. The day he went underground was a pretty damn cheerful one for me.” He sighed, still smirking. “You think your daddy’d be surprised that his little girl ended up with an outlaw?”

“Well, I have a bit of a track record with outlaws, so, _surprised_?” Rane waggled a hand dubiously. “He’d get behind it, though, once he was done glowering and muttering and drilling you with questions. He’s a good guy. Big and scary and blonde like you,” she added, grinning at him. “You’d get along, I bet.”

  
They lapsed into companionable silence, looking out across the water. Eli loosed a long, echoing whinny behind them, and Arthur moved over toward Rane, settling himself behind her, stretching his legs about her lean form and wrapping his big arms around her chest, pulling her back toward him. Rane leaned her head back against his shoulder, relaxing, her eyes falling shut. Arthur, too, felt his body falling lax. Something about the way he was holding her right now was just . . . utterly halcyon. He rested his chin on the top of her head, shutting his eyes for a second, basking in the warm presence of her. The sun sparkled off the water beyond them, glistening as it fell through the heavy cloud cover overhead, and the air was alive with gentle birdsong. If he had to stay in this moment forever, he wouldn't have protested.  
  


"You smell like horses," Rane remarked, low.

"That's just yer breath blowin' back into yer face."

"Rude."

Rane tilted her head back and yanked his mouth to hers by a scruff of sweaty hair, kissing him. He leaned into it, exhaling against her mouth. A low, raspy growl of pleasure escaped on his breath as his tongue touched hers, close to Rane's ear, and Gooseflesh sprung up at once all down her arms. She could feel Arthur's heartbeat picking up beneath his vest, beginning to pound against her shoulder; one of his palms pressed against the firm flesh of her belly, and the other caressed her exposed throat, his hands rough and warm on her skin. After a moment he drew away from her mouth, looking down at her, a trifle out of breath.

"You better quit kissin' me like that or I'm gonna have to drag you into them woods over there, and that ain't right so soon after Molly," he said, low.

Rane eyeballed him a moment longer, her eyes flicking from his eyes to his mouth and back up again, her lips slightly parted. He returned her gaze, his fingers still trailing over her throat, his heart thumping excitedly against her shoulder.

"Yeah. You're right." She straightened, leaning over her knees and scrabbling at her scalp, her long hair rippling around her face. "Sorry."

"Yeah, makes two of us, trust me." Arthur was yanking at his jeans, still panting a little. "I'm still gettin' used to this whole thing, with havin' a purty woman around who wants to hop into bed with me back. Usually it's just me doin' the chasin' and them doin' the runnin' -"

"Hey, Arthur -"

"- I mean, you got the ones that hang around saloons, 'course, but it's hard to tell if they really like ya or they're just gettin' friendly for the cash -"

" _Arthur_."

"- and you know what I mean by 'hard,' ha, if you take my -"

"Let's go."

Arthur ceased jerking at his fly and looked at her, surprised by the ire in her voice. She was staring back at him over her shoulder, the wind catching her hair, her eyes hard and both hands flat in the sand.

"What? _Go_?"

"Yeah. Let's just go. Just take Eli and go." She was still watching him, and Arthur was startled to see that her eyes were a little overbright in the low overcast light. "We don't have to go back there. We can just go. Just us."

"Are you _cryin_ '?" Arthur reshuffled his weight, moving to her side, feeling discombobulated, doubly so because of the nearly full erection bulging beneath his fly. "Hey, I was just jokin' around about that saloon girl thing -"

Rane pursed her lips, willing the tears standing in her eyes not to fall. Here she was again, a woman who'd always prided herself on her thick skin, getting all sloppy about the man sitting before her. "I'm not."

"Rane, I'm lookin' right at ya." Arthur gestured at her helplessly, feeling impotent. "Just tell me what's goin' on. Please. I ain't no good at this."

Rane got to her feet abruptly, pacing a few steps off, hands on her hips. Arthur rose as well, watching her uncertainly.

"Just that, just what I said. I just, I think we should leave." Rane turned to him, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Just . . . just go."

"You tryin' to ask me to run off with you, that it?"

Rane nodded at once beneath his palms, biting her lip. Arthur laughed a little, low.

"And thinkin' of runnin' off with me, that makes you cry?" He patted his chest. "Ouch."

Rane scoffed, gesturing at him, looking a little broken. "That's - no. It's just . . ."

Arthur stepped toward her and smoothed the hair away from her temple, looking into her eyes, trying to discern what was happening behind them. He was a man raised around hard fellers who wore irons on their hips and seldom exposed the contents of their hearts, and after decades of this Arthur was clumsy with love as well as with his own emotions; his only real practice had been with Mary. There were many things he wasn't sure how to cope with gracefully with regards to welcoming romance back into his world. Here was another new one; consoling a woman without making things worse. Yet another of his life's greatest historical failings.

"Just say it, darlin', I just wanna understand. I don't like to see you like this, tell me how to fix it -"

"I'm upset because you're dying," Rane said in a rush, and lifted her hands, letting them drop to her sides, defeated. "And everything back at that camp is going straight to hell. Something worse than Molly getting shot is gonna happen, I feel it in my gut, Arthur."

"Rane, come on, you can't know that."

" _No_ , Arthur. I _can."_ Rane fixed him with an irascible look. "I _can_ know that. I don't want any part of it. I don't know how long we're gonna have together, and I don't want to spend what we've got under his shadow while that soul-patch-wearing ass hat back there is going batshit crazy. So come away with me. Let's go, let's just _go_."

Arthur looked at her a long moment, mulling over his next words. He linked his thumbs into his belt loops, shifting his weight. He'd had this same conversation with Mary more than once, and rarely had it ended well for him. And Mary wasn't anywhere close to as hot-blooded as Rane was. The woman herself was pacing back and forth before him now, wringing her hands, her sword clanking against her hip, staring down at the sand.

"Rane, I can't just leave."

Rane stilled, watching him, her mouth turned down. He met her gaze steadily, forcing himself not to let his eyes slide away from hers. This was a little like the afternoon they'd ridden side by side on the road to the fence, when she'd fixed him with a gimlet glare and allowed him a glimpse of how dangerous she could be if the fancy took her. Much like that day, he needed to talk her down from this ledge, not push her off.

"You can't, or you don't want to?" Her voice was light and chilly.

"Rane, I'd follow you anyplace, you know that. It ain't the wanting that's the problem. There are people back there who need me. Especially now. I can't just walk out on 'em"

"Why _you_? Why do they need _you_?" Rane gestured angrily. "Why does it _always have to be you_? Nobody else back there takes any responsibility for jack shit, it's either _you're_ supposed to take care of it on Dutch's fucking orders, or _I_ have to take care of it on Dutch's fucking orders, how is that in any way -?"

"I'm Dutch's lieutenant, Rane, that's my job, to keep 'em safe. It's just my job, always has been. And you're doing jobs for him because you're good at what seems like every damn thing you do, sure," he added unhappily. "I'm sorry he's doin' it, I am, I know you must feel like an attack dog or somethin', but that's just how the gang is, Rane, that's just how it works. I gotta do my job, I gotta keep 'em safe."

"Who?" Rane bent a little at the waist, looking exasperated, her brows knit over her bright eyes. " _Who_ needs you? Besides me, I mean."

Arthur looked at her, his heart sinking in his chest. She was watching him with a desperate expression, her dark brows descended over her eyes, her eyelashes flashing as she blinked against the tears she was busily denying. There were twenty years of history back at the camp behind them, and Rane, who was not quite thirty yet, could not possibly understand how difficult to break that sort of bond was.

"John and Abigail and Jack, for starters. And the rest of 'em. Tilly, Mary-Beth, Karen, Sadie - I gotta help 'em get away, if it starts gettin' worse with Dutch. I can't just run out on 'em."

"But you'd run out on me. Not them, but me."

" _No_ , I wouldn't run out on you!" Arthur fixed her with an astonished look. "Of _course_ I wouldn't -!"

"Why not? Who am I, anyways?" Rane gesticulated, her sparkling eyes now not just tear-filled but furious. "I'm not a part of your little fucking band of merry men, I'm just some random ass chick that turned up on the back of your horse! If I left, what would you do? You wouldn't follow me, would you? _Would_ you?"

Arthur struggled, gesturing. "Alright, now you're pettifogging and I need ya to stop -"

"I'm not _pettifogging_ , it's an honest question -"

"Yes you are, so quit it, if we're gonna talk about this I want you to rein it in and be calm."

Rane flushed pink. " _Be calm_?"

"Yes!" Arthur kept his gaze with hers, summoning the same courage he had on the road to the horse fence. "Yes, be _calm_. I don't think it's too much to ask, you're over here cryin' and carryin' on and it's making me feel all flustered about it -!"

" _I'm not crying_!" Rane cried.

Arthur lifted both hands palm out. "Okay. Fine. _Fine_. So to answer your question, Rane, no, I wouldn't let ya leave, and if you tried to I'd likely follow after ya."

"Okay, well, then I'm leaving." Rane put her hands on her waist, nodding quickly, her eyes steely and apprehensive on his. "I'm gonna hop onto Eli and ride away, I'm gonna get far enough away from Dutch and the rest of that shitshow that I don't ever need to hear about any of it again, I'm gonna put all of this behind me. How's that sound to you?"

Arthur watched her unhappily. "It sounds like the scariest damned thing I ever heard and you know it. Don't say that to me." He hesitated, then added, "that's cruel, Rane."

Rane wilted a little at the sincerity in his voice, her shoulders sinking. Arthur shook his head, chewing his lip.

"I see what you're tryin' to say, but this ain't a simple yes or no. It just ain't. Them people back there, I've known some of 'em since I was thirteen or fourteen years old. You understand how it is, when I say that? How I can't just up and split with a girl I met hardly two weeks ago? Please don't be pissed off that I'm sayin' it that way," he added quickly, watching her. "I'm tryin' to make you see how it is, that's all. Okay?"

"That camp, the whole situation, that's a Spandau ballet, Arthur. It's _dying_ and _trapped_. it's a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. It's gonna go up. The signs are all there." Rane shook her head. "It's gonna go bad, and it's gonna go bad soon, no matter what you -"

"Rane," said Arthur, shaking his head and steeling his heart. "No. _No_. And that's the last word I have on it. I gotta help 'em. They're my family. I ain't that kinda man."

Rane stood on the sand watching him, breathing harshly, her eyes still overbright. After a moment she placed both hands over her face for a moment, then snatched them away, turning toward the water, her hair blowing back from her brow.

"You won't leave," she said softly, and sighed, brushing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. She laughed, low and humorless. "I bet Mary what's-her-fuck asked you to do this a couple times, too, and we all see how that ended up."

Arthur moved toward her and grasped his hand in hers. "Yeah, she did, a time or two. I'm glad I said no, or I'd never had met you."

Rane sighed roughly, shaking her head. "It wasn't right for me to say that, I'm sorry. Fuck, it wasn't right for me to say any of that to you at all."

Arthur watched her a moment, then bent, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her temple.

"You don't have to apologize. I know why you're askin' it of me. I wish I could give ya a different answer." He laughed, low. "I just don't wanna make you cry, that's all. I'm tryin' to make you happy, not sad."

Rane turned and hugged him to her, burying her face in his shirt, her grip tight against his shoulders. He tightened his grip around her, rubbing a palm over her back gently, letting his cheek rest on the crown of her head. She was trying not to let on that she was crying openly now, but her breath was fragmentary, and he could feel her heartbeat, rapid as gunfire, racing against his chest.

"Hey, quit that." He kissed the top of her head gently, pulling her nearer. "Quit."

"I'm fine," said Rane, muffled against his shirt.

"Your heart always beats faster when you're blubberin'," said Arthur, pulling her back by the shoulders and smiling down at her wryly. "So now, baby, I gotta wonder if you're really enjoyin' yourself when we're in bed together or you're just miserable and holdin' back tears, sometimes."

Rane stared at him a moment, bewildered by this jest, then laughed roughly, shaking her head and wiping at her cheeks with the heels of her hand.

"I'm sorry. Stupid." She cleared her throat, straightening with a brave decorum that made Arthur smile a little. "I just don't know what to do."

"I gotta ask, what the fuck is a Spandau ballet?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Rane was watching him, chewing her thumbnail anxiously, her eyes still bright and damp. "I don't wanna cry over you anymore for a little while, so can we try to keep this shit a little bit more cheerful? Please?"

"I'll try." Arthur watched her, frowning. "You still with me?"

"Yeah. Not like I have much of a choice." Rane sighed. "What do we have to do?"

"We gotta help keep 'em safe 'til we know what's goin' on," said Arthur. "And after that we're gonna get the fuck outta here, just like you want. Just you and me. We're gonna have our time. You hear me?"

Rane nodded, looking into his eyes. Her gaze wasn't wholly convinced, and Arthur observed this with dismay. "Yeah. Okay."

"I promise ya." He took her hand and grasped it in both his own against his chest. "I promise."

"Lawyers make promises, too. So do politicians." Rane eyed him grimly. "Sirius promised me one time that he wouldn't get hurt, and that same night he died. You'll forgive me if 'I promise' doesn't quite inspire the same conviction for me anymore."

"Well, I ain't a lawyer or a politician. And I _sure_ as hell ain't Sirius." Arthur leaned down and kissed her, his chin rough and scratchy against hers. "It's gonna be okay, Rane. I'll take care of you. You're the only damn thing I want anymore. We just gotta get these fellers squared away. We gotta. I can't let 'em die. I need you to help me."

Rane looked into his eyes a long moment, then nodded, her hands squeezing his. "Okay."

"I love you." Arthur shook his head a little, the corners of his mouth tilting into a little smile. "I love you with all my heart, Rane Roth, I surely do. I don't care how many big words you use, you're still alright in my books."

Rane's lips curved into an involuntary smile, one that genuinely reached her eyes, the first since Molly. It bared all her even teeth, made her younger and even more lovely, despite the dampness of her eyelashes.

"Rane Roth. I guess Rane Morgan doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?"

Arthur's smile dropped away, his brows knitting, and Rane saw the emotion flashing in his eyes for just a sheer moment before he turned away, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, no, you ain't wrong. You keep your father's namesake if you wanna, I ain't fussed."

"Hey, no." Rane grasped his hand. "I was joking. Asshole thing to say, I'm sorry. When can we do it?"

"I'll talk to Swanson tomorrow. If you don't change your mind by then." Arthur had met her eyes again, and his brief moment of weakness had evaporated when he did. "If you still wanna, we'll make it official. Alright?"

"So I'm getting married tomorrow."

"Yeah, unless you decide to, y'know -" Arthur gestured backwards. "Hop on Eli and ride away, of course."

Rane nodded, biting her lip, and leaning up kissed him.

"I love you too," Rane said softly against his mouth, and relished his lips against hers as Eli whinnied behind them. "I do. I love you. Even if you won't leave this shitty situation with me."

"I know ya do. I know it." Arthur closed his arms around her tightly. "We're gonna get through all this shit. We are. I swear to Christ, one way or another, we're gonna."

Rane said nothing, but her eyes were open as she rested her head against his chest, roving over the water beyond, the thudding of his heart audible in her ear, and she wondered.


	42. Preparing for the Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Rane collect John for a decidedly perilous mission, and Reverend Swanson receives an unexpected request

_Oh, my love, my darling_   
_I've hungered for your touch_   
_A long, lonely time_   
_And time goes by so slowly_   
_And time can do so much_   
_Are you still mine?_

_I need your love_   
_I need your love_   
_God speed your love to me_

_Lonely rivers flow_   
_To the sea, to the sea_   
_To the open arms of the sea_   
_Lonely rivers sigh_   
_"Wait for me, wait for me"_   
_I'll be coming home, wait for me._

**\- Righteous Brothers**

________________

“Listen up,” said Arthur. “I gotta talk to ya about somethin’ real quick, before we get back to camp.”

Rane glanced at him from Eli’s back, suspicious. They were riding side by side through the woods, ducking beneath the lower-hanging pine branches, heading back to Dutch and the rest of them (Arthur had insisted on staying off the road, citing the Murfree brood once again - Rane was beginning to feel a little curious about them, the way everyone was carrying on). After their brief moment of repose on the beach, they’d strayed into the forest beyond to find some game, with the intent of lubricating their reentry (and following through with Arthur's excuse about leaving camp to go hunting). They hadn’t been terribly lucky - Arthur had only managed to shoot a possum from the hip, and its scrawny carcass now hung from his saddle - but it would be enough to assuage Dutch, who was doubtless imagining them conspiring against him together someplace in their absence.

“Oh, boy.” Rane’s voice was deadpan and wary. “I should certainly hope we’ve reached our quota today for unpleasant surprises, between the yelling and the murder and the crying and what-have-you -”

“Well, it’s a couple things, matter of fact,” Arthur amended, looking a little rueful.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“We got a job when we get back. It’s goin’ down this evening. Me, you and John, I think, now he’s back. Was gonna be me and Micah and Javier, but I’d rather you two and not those couple hotheads. So we’re gonna need to -”

“Whoa, whoa, hang on, let’s back up a tick - you want _me, you and John_ to do a job together?” said Rane, scoffing. “ _Together_?”

“Why? Is it awkward for you or somethin’? Kinda uncomfortable?” Arthur’s voice was light, his gaze on the wood ahead and his eyebrows high. Rane snorted sardonically.

“I feel like you _might_ be making fun of me, but your sense of humor is so subtle and nuanced and mature and sophisticated that it’s tough to tell -”

“Look, John might make you all weak around the knees, Rane, with them -” Arthur gestured at his face, grinning. “Them big ol’ _sparkly eyes,_ and those mushy _lips_ , and that - that dark, silky _hair_ , and all them big _muscles_ , and those jeans, oh boy, them _jeans_ he’s always wearin’ a size or three too small to show off the goods, and all that _chest hair_ , I know girls like _that_ -”

“Fall off a bridge, please.”

“- _but,_ he’s a good fighter and he’s comin’ with us. That’s the end of it, so make your peace.”

Rane sighed. She gestured at the possum. “And what does Dutch think about all this? You think a dead rat is going to mend our friendship?”

“Well, he doesn’t have a say, because _I’m_ the one who organized the whole damn thing,” said Arthur grimly. “And as such, I get to yoke up whoever I please. I got a little bit of sway in all this yet, believe it or not. And that ain’t a rat.”

“So what you’re saying is that he doesn’t know you’re planning on bringing me and John along, and you’re not going to tell him.”

Arthur shrugged, readjusting his grip on the reins. “Call it what ya want.”

“Dutch was about two heartbeats away from clocking me in the face this morning, Arthur, the dude isn’t pleased with me as it is. Maybe I should sit this one out.”

Arthur gave her a slightly impatient look, ducking beneath a branch. “So what, you’d rather hang around at camp with him and Micah, with me miles away?” he asked.

“Are you implying that I can’t take care of myself?” asked Rane, a trifle haughtily.

“I’m implyin’ that we outta let sleeping dogs lie. ‘Specially when it comes to Dutch and Micah, just this very moment.”

Rane scoffed loudly. “If it came down to me against Dutch and Micah -”

“Listen, you don’t wanna go toe to toe with Dutch, you can trust me on that, he didn’t get to the top by shinin’ shoes. And say what ya will about Micah - I know I sure do, every chance I get - but he’s one of the fastest hands we ever had in the gang in all the twenty-odd years I been with ‘em. Dare I _say_ it, maybe even as fast as _your_ cocky ass is,” He added, eyeing her.

“Look here, Arthur Morgan,” said Rane, sounding supremely disdainful, holding her head high and squaring her shoulders, “there’s a lot I don’t know about this mortal coil, but one thing I do know, beyond any shadow of doubt, is that I am most definitely and assuredly faster than Micah Bell.”

Arthur chewed his lip for a moment, watching her from beneath his hat, then turned. “Nah. I’m puttin’ my foot down on this one. If you wanna sweeten Dutch down, you oughta try and make yourself seem useful, and goin’ out and gettin’ things done seems a lot more useful than lounging around mean-muggin’ him all day. And _furthermore_ ,” he added, his voice rising imperatively, still not looking at her, “I don’t want us separated no more, after everything that’s happened. Even for a little while. I’d feel a hell of a lot better if you were by my side, whether it’s for a score or whatever else.”

Rane watched his profile a moment longer, frowning, then nodded. “Fine. But not because I think you’re right,” she added, scowling. “About that Micah thing. I’m way quicker than he is. _Way_. Like, _so_ much quicker -”

“Oh, would ya lookit me, I’m the cat who walks by herself,” Arthur intoned in a mocking falsetto, waggling both hands in the air before him and popping his eyes. “All places are alike to me. I got a spine like a lightning rod, I got skin like steel wool, nothin’ scares _me_ , blah blah blah -!”

“I don't sound like that,” Rane muttered crossly, flushed, glaring over Eli’s mane. Arthur was laughing openly.

“If you quit bein’ so damn proud for a second, we’ll get outta this quicker. Just hush and follow my lead on this one for a change.”

Rane lapsed into silence, her face still a little pink. The horses passed out of the pine forest at last, tossing their heads at the welcome openness. Here, so much closer to Beaver Hollow, Arthur seemed content enough to follow the trail outright. Rane, who wore pine needles in her hair and scratches along her forearms, was glad for it. It was still cloudy, the light low, carmine and strangely portentous.

“I hope it doesn’t rain anymore,” Rane murmured, squinting upwards.

“Well, so do I!” said Arthur. “Say, you wanna know why? Go on, ask me why I hope it don’t rain.”

Rane glared off sullenly. “Why don’t you want it to rain, Arthur.”

“Because _we_ ,” he said expansively, “are gonna blow up a _bridge_ tonight.”

Rane sucked her teeth, wincing. “We are?”

“Yep.”

“And why, prithee tell, will we be blowing up a bridge, Arthur Morgan?”

“Well, Rane Roth, I’ll tell ya why.” Arthur resettled his weight on his horse, letting one hand dangle at his side. “There’s a train comin’ through this evening that belongs to the United States Army, and on that train is a _whooole_ hell of a lot of money. You see where I’m goin’ with this?”

Rane yanked Eli to a sudden stop, glaring at him. “ _What?_ ”

Arthur heeled his horse, too. “ _What_ what?”

“I thought Dutch wanted to keep things _quiet_ so y’all could get away from Lemoyne!” Rane’s voice was shrill and accusatory. “Now you wanna rob the damn _government_? I mean, why don’t you just strip down naked and ride a fucking penny-farthing around the sheriff’s office playing La Bamba on a damn accordion or something -?”

Arthur scoffed, looking a little insulted. “Rane, there’s untold cash ridin’ through Saint Denis on that train, it’s enough to get us all outta the state and someplace where we ain’t gettin’ dogged by Pinkertons at every turn -”

“That’s Dutch talking.” Rane was glaring at him from beneath her brows. “That’s his voice coming right out of your own mouth.”

“Look, you think you understand this sort of business, Rane, but lemme assure ya, you don’t,” said Arthur, steeling himself and allowing his voice to grow a little scolding. He thumbed his chest, his mouth thin beneath the shade of his hat. “I been doin’ this since I was hardly old enough to jack off, pardon the expression -”

“Wait, what does _jacking off_ have to do with anything?” Rane remarked, laughing a little in spite of herself.

“Shut up, that ain’t - look, I _know_ what I’m doin’!” Arthur said angrily, flushing a little. “And you don’t know shit about robbin’ and takin’ what ain’t yours like I do, alright? We’re doin’ it,” he added, straightening his hat a little decorously and snapping the reins of his horse, starting back up the trail. “That’s the end of it, so quit bellyachin’.”

Rane glowered after him, then spurred Eli on. “So when are we leaving for this big -”

“Fast. Right off, if we can get away without a big yammerin’. You’re gonna go talk to John, and I’m gonna go talk to . . . “ Arthur wilted a little, clearing his throat gruffly. “I’m gonna talk to Swanson.”

Rane nodded, a little chastened. In the midst of their banter she’d nearly forgotten. They’d planned on asking Swanson to marry them the following day.

“Is it still -?”

“I dunno.” Arthur shrugged, glancing at her. He looked a little subdued himself, clearly thinking the same thing. “I ain’t asked him yet. Nobody knows except me and you -”

“And Sadie.”

“You told Sadie?” Arthur glanced at her, chewing the insides of his mouth, trying not to burst into a grin. “Why’d ya do that?”

“I wanted to tell _someone_ ,” Rane admitted, flushing crimson, not looking at him.

“You wanted to brag about marryin’ some big dumb bastard like me?”

Rane laughed, shrugging, looking abashed. “I dunno. Look, what do I need to tell John?”

Arthur eyeballed her profile another moment, still struggling with a broad smile, then turned his eyes back to the trail, feeling a little taller, somehow. “Tell him we need to get movin’ with the train job. He’ll know what you’re talkin’ about, we discussed it a couple weeks before he went to jail. Just don’t let Dutch overhear ya. I don’t wan’t him knowin’ you’re coming along.” He sighed grimly, his smile dying away. “If he spots ya, it’s gonna take more than a possum to take the stinger outta his ass.”

  
  


SWANSON was sitting on a boulder near the edge of the camp when Arthur strode in, and he was happy to note this relative seclusion. He’d cast about for Dutch with an instinctiveness that bordered on paranoia (and his heart was a little sad to note the sensation, despite it all), but neither he nor Micah were in evidence, and that was just fine with him. Rane, her long hair wafting behind her as she strode across camp with her usual rapid cadence, was making for John, who was holed up with Abigail and Jack on the other end. Arthur eyed her a moment as she did, a little unnerved; unlike him, she wasn’t looking around for Dutch at all. She was walking around like she owned the place, and that was liable to get her in trouble. He was going to have to make this quick.

“Swanson! Hey, _Swanson_!”

The man himself turned, looking surprised. When his eyes met Arthur’s his face relaxed into a delicate smile.

“Arthur!” He moved aside on the boulder, patting at his side. “Good to see you, my boy! Sit down, please, join me. I was just taking in this lovely -”

“Ah, I wish I could, Reverend, but I got some business elsewhere I gotta see to shortly here,” Arthur said, shoving his hands into his pockets and standing before Swanson. “I got a . . . well, I got somethin' to ask ya. You got a second?”

Swanson spread his arms. “Of course, Arthur, anything for you.”

“Alright, well.” Arthur scoffed, shifting his weight, feeling abruptly clumsy. He had ruminated on this moment in his future since he’d asked her, of course, but the actual execution of it had never fully occurred to him, and now he found himself feeling almost bashful. “Well, I, uh . . . hell, this is awkward. I got a favor to ask, a bit of an unusual favor. A big one. And I’d appreciate it if we could keep it between the two of us.”

Swanson looked intrigued, crossing his legs and looking up at Arthur raptly. “A favor? Of what sort?”

“Well -” Arthur scoffed again, feeling the warmth rising into his cheeks. His eyes swept around the camp briefly over Swanson’s shoulders and he was relieved to see that the closest one was Uncle, who was leaning against a wagon wheel, dead to the world, his arms crossed and his head lolling. “Well, so you’re . . . well, you’re a _reverend_ , right, obviously?”

Swanson looked bewildered. “Well, yes, of course.”

“So you can marry folk. If the fancy took ya, I mean.”

Swanson looked confused. "Well, yes, of course, as a reverend I am still able to be married, if I were to meet someone, I suppose -"

" _No_ , I mean -" Arthur sighed. "I mean can you marry _two people_ _together_? Can ya _preside_ over it? You see what I'm askin'?"

Swanson eyed him a little shrewdly. “Yes, Arthur, I am able to wed a couple before God.”

“I want you to marry me and Rane,” Arthur said in a rush, his voice barely more than a whisper. “The girl that showed up at camp with the fancy sword, y’know who I mean?"

"The pretty one." Swanson was nodding, smiling a little. "Dark hair, funny accent."

Arthur was nodding. "Can ya? I can . . . I dunno, give ya money, or -?”

"Mister Morgan, I had no _idea_ you were involved with the young lady!" Swanson stood abruptly and took Arthur’s hand in both his own, shaking it rigorously and beaming. "I'm so happy, Arthur, so _happy_ for you -!"

“ _Shhh_!” Arthur flapped a hand, looking abashed. “Don’t nobody know ‘cept you, and I wanna keep it that way, so keep your voice down, would ya?”

"Oh! Yes, yes, of course!" Swanson dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He was still shaking Arthur's hand rigorously. "Arthur, this is good news, _great_ news, no one is more deserving of -!"

“Yeah, alright, _alright_!” Arthur pried his hand away with an effort. “Will ya do it or not, Reverend? We gotta get a jump on it, if we’re to -”

“Yes! Yes, of course I will!” Swanson was casting about, his eyes fervent. “I’ll need a Bible, of course, and a tie, and we’ll need to establish the locale -”

“No, no, we ain’t got time for all that.” Arthur waved a hand impatiently. “We gotta get it done and dusted quick, Swanson, just the bare bones.”

"Very well, very well - a Bible, then, and a few witnesses -"

"Witnesses?" Arthur looked a tad alarmed at this. "You need w _itnesses_? What for?"

"Oh, my dear boy, I'm sure I don't know," said Swanson, waving a hand, still looking quite delighted. "Tradition, all that. One or two will suffice. Surely you must have someone you can trust?"

Arthur cast about. John sprung right to mind, followed closely by Abigail and Sadie. He could hash out those details later, surely, think on it tonight. "Sure, I guess so. When's the soonest you can do it?"

“Well, where is the bride?” Swanson stared around him. “I’m happy to do it now, if you’d like.”

Arthur stared at Swanson a long moment, aware that his heart had doubled its pace beneath his chest. He could hear Rane speaking to John on the other end of the camp, just audible over the birdsong, their words morphing into formless sounds.

“No, no,” he said after a moment, shaking his hand, a trifle unsteadily. “No, we’ll wanna do it once we get back, we got a job tonight. Will ya be here? Can we count on it? I don’t know no other holy men,” Arthur added, looking a trifle sheepish. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. This is a little bit odd for me, all this.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Swanson, flapping a hand. “You have a ring, I presume?”

Arthur hesitated. “I might could, yeah -”

“Well, you _must_ have a ring, Mister Morgan, otherwise the bond is not recognized by the Holy -”

“Alright, fine, let it go ‘til I get back.” Arthur was watching him anxiously. “What else do I need? Anything?”

“Only your love.” Swanson was watching him almost fondly. Arthur cared for this expression not at all. “Oh, Mister Morgan, I’m so very _pleased_ to -!”

“Alright, Christ.” Arthur turned, shoving his hat over his head. “Don’t mention that to nobody, if it ain’t too much trouble, Reverend, I’ll be back tomorrow day.”

He strode away without another word, feeling Swanson’s eyes following him. Rane and John were already at the edge of camp, both clambering onto their horses.

“Arthur, you’re as red as murder,” John remarked, laughing.

“Well, I’m glad them wolves didn’t eat away the part of your brain that can tell which color is what, at least,” Arthur muttered, climbing onto his own horse. “Come on, let’s get a move on, both you fools.”


	43. A Bridge Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, Arthur and John take a bridge down in spectacular fashion

_Burning papers into ashes_   
_What are seasons, how they fly high_   
_From the ground up_   
_There is yet another fountain_   
_Flowing over as the night falls_   
_Keep dreaming away._

**\- The Dø**

__________

The three of them rode away from camp unmolested, Rane bringing up the rear and Arthur and John heading the caravan. None of them spoke until they were well way from camp. They were all nervous, and all thinking the same thing: if Dutch spied them together this way, especially after he and Rane had bayed at one another like a couple of broody cougars when she’d shown up with a prematurely rescued John Marston, there’d be hell to pay.

Arthur had been deep in rumination since they’d left camp, his brow furrowed and his mouth thin beneath the shade of his hat. He’d spurned Dutch’s orders more times these past few weeks than he’d done for their entire tenure together, starting with falling in love with Rane Roth. The conflict still existed within him, of course - he had been taking the man’s word as gospel since he was a teenager, and defying him didn’t come naturally - but Rane seemed to have changed some fundamental aspect of him, to have focused a beam of light on a place in his soul he hadn’t even known existed, one he supposed had to do with his own faithful nature. It was suddenly becoming clear to him that his unquestioning loyalty might demand a high price indeed, and he was not prepared to pay it. Not yet. Not while some of them could still get away.

“The dynamite’s off that way,” John said, pointing toward an offshoot of the main trail. Arthur jumped at his abrupt voice.

“Christ.” He passed a hand over his face. “Is it far? Where’d ya stash it?”

“‘Bout a quarter-mile east of the trail,” John replied. “Won’t take but -”

“Don’t bother,” said Rane, shaking her head. She was staring above them at the growing rainclouds, her face uneasy. Her voice was oddly offhanded, almost lazy. “I can do it.”

Arthur and John glanced back at her, both frowning beneath their hats.

“Rane, it’s a _huge_ damned bridge, I don’t think you realize how big it is,” said John. “It’s half a wheel across a gorge -”

“It’s fine. Forget about the dynamite.”

“You _sure_?” asked Arthur.

“Positive.”

“But Rane, it’s a _bridge_.” John seemed to feel that he hadn’t communicated this sufficiently. “A _bridge_. A _big_ one, like all the way between two cliffs. It’s gonna take six bundles of mining charges just to put a damn dent in it. You hear what I’m tellin’ ya?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Rane was still looking up at the clouds, her eyes oddly far away as she rocked back and forth on Eli, her long hair wavering before her face. “I’ll take care of it.”

John and Arthur exchanged a glance. Arthur shrugged.

“Let her take care of it,” he said, inclining his head toward her. “She wants to take care of it, let her take care of it. Shit, it’d save us a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, well what if it don’t work?”

“If it don’t work then we go get the dynamite and string ‘er up like a Christmas tree, same way we planned. Hell, we got ‘til mornin’, it ain’t even dark yet. But I think it’ll work fine, John. I seen her do stranger shit than that and so’ve you.”

“I don’t know, Arthur, that bridge is bigger than Billy-be-damned, this ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie -”

“ _Im tul na’belth._ ”

Arthur glanced at Rane over one shoulder. “Beg pardon?”

Rane didn’t answer. Her gaze had slid down to Eli’s mane, becoming unspecific and tenebrous, her hair hanging in her face. Arthur eyed her, a little unsettled.

“Rane. You alright?”

“Y’know, we might could just swing by and grab them charges, just in case, even if we don’t use ‘em,” John was musing, rubbing his chin. “That way if it don’t work the first time we save ourselves a trip to -”

“Hang on a tick, Marston.” Arthur’s voice was low and sharp as he pulled his horse to a stop. “Look at ‘er, she ain’t right. Hey, Rane? You okay? What’s wrong?”

John yanked Old Boy to a halt beside Arthur as well, staring back. Eli was faltering of his own accord, stamping in the dirt a few yards back, clearly unsure why he wasn’t receiving commands. Rane’s grip on his reins had become flaccid, her long thighs slack against his sides. Her head hung on her neck, limp and aimed toward the sky, her eyes unfocused and lidded beneath her brows, her long hair wafting over her face and catching on her slightly parted lips. And her eyes . . . her eyes had changed. Arthur, who had stared into them more times than he could count, noted it right away; they were not hazel anymore but a bright, icy blue, fixed and constricted, the eyes of an owl or a puma, not a woman. He had seen it happen only once before, on the shores of Guarma, when Limdur had asked her if she was a . . . what was the word he’d used? Arthur could not remember. A pear-dill? A par-deal? Some fucking thing like that.

“Rane,” said Arthur sharply, his voice echoing flatly off the grounds around them. “Hey. _Rane_. You’re scarin’ me, girl.”

“ _Le meluvan._ Long years. Lots of years." Rane’s voice was still low and lazy, a sleeptalker’s intonation. “ _Nurucilie_. I have no choice. I must.”

“Look at her eyes,” said John, soft, his voice wavering. He had never witnessed this phenomenon before, and his voice was low and unnerved. “Arthur, there’s somethin’ wrong with her eyes.”

“Yeah, I see ‘em,” Arthur replied, very quiet. He held a hand out, palm down, moving slowly. “Don’t do nothin’ for a second, John, don’t disturb her. Just be still. Don’t do anything sudden.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur’s voice was gentle and vigilant. “Just let her be a sec.”

John did. The two men watched Rane Roth, side by side on their mounts, tense and watchful from some seven feet ahead of her. Eli, for his part, looked quite calm, despite what was happening on his back, and Arthur took some heart in this. Rane had remained in the same lax position, but now a strange, blue-white light had begun to emanate from her, low and hardly perceptible, like the glow of a flashlight in the afternoon sun. There was a low wind picking up around the three of them, whipping about like a tempest, throwing dead leaves and bits of grass into a little tornado. And something else; she was speaking, almost whispering. Neither John or Arthur could make out what she was saying, but her lips were moving gently. She looked relaxed and strange and terribly beautiful in the crimson light of the approaching storm. Arthur felt the skin on his forearms rippling with gooseflesh, and there was a sort of hair-raising energy surrounding them in the air, as if lightning were preparing to strike. The fine hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Eli may have been calm, but Arthur’s horse and Old Boy were both snorting, uneasy, prancing, their ears pinned back, rolling eyes fixed on Rane. They clearly felt it too, whatever this was.

“ _Rane_!” said Arthur sharply.

Rane’s head snapped down suddenly, her eyes flashing back to hazel, and stared around her for a moment as if bewildered by her own environs, the leaves swept wild by her winds falling around her, suddenly lax. She looked at Arthur and John, both men watching her with astonishment. For a moment she only stared at them, her brow knit, eyes flitting between them, as if unsure what they were doing there.

" _What_?" she said at last, sounding faintly derisive.

“You okay?” said Arthur gently.

“What do you mean, am I okay?”

Arthur was watching her intently. “What I asked.”

Rane scoffed. “What, like psychologically? I mean, yeah, I guess. I could use a few more sessions, maybe, sure. Couple Xanax wouldn't hurt.”

John and Arthur exchanged a glance.

“You sure you feel okay?” John asked.

Rane stared at him. “The hell? Yeah, I’m fine, what -?”

“You just acted a little -”

Arthur punched him in the shoulder, and not gently. John winced, grasping his arm, glaring at Arthur.

“You look a little peaky. That's what John meant.”

“I’m fine.” Rane was looking between them suspiciously. “Totally fine. The hell is wrong with you guys, you look like you saw a ghost.”

"Nothin’. Come on.” Arthur turned his horse and urged it on, casting a significant look at John. “Let’s get a move on.”

  
  


THE bridge was as broad and expansive as John had promised. Rane slid off Eli, looking at it assessingly, her mouth downturned. The void beneath was whistling, broad and unforgiving. Her two companions were dismounting as well. Arthur was peering toward her, one hand shading his eyes, squinting.

“Jesus Christ, that’s a gigantic motherfucking bridge,” Rane remarked, low.

“I _told_ you!” John said stridently from where he was hitching Old Boy. “I _told_ ya it was big! I told her, didn’t I?”

"Look here, now, we need it busted through right in the middle there." Arthur pointed over his horse's back as he tied her off. "Can't be too close to either side, otherwise it'll spoil the way the train goes down."

Rane whistled, low. "This is gonna be kinda tricky. I was expecting, like . . . y'know, fifteen feet of wood over a creek or something, not the goddamn _Pont du Gard_."

"Girl, you oughta get your ears checked out," John remarked, shaking his head.

“You think we should go back and get that dynamite?” Arthur asked her, tipping his hat back.

“Nah, nah, I got it.” Rane was rolling her sleeves up, pacing back and forth before the bridge. “Dang. Taking me back to my first year at the Ministry with this shit.”

“You _sure_?” Arthur was watching her. “We can go get it, Rane -”

“You trying to insult me? Because that’s insulting.” Rane cast him a grievous look. “You realize it’s insulting, what you're saying, right?”

Arthur lifted both hands palms out, shaking his head and grinning. “Alright, alright, Christ, go on then.”

Rane continued to pace back and forth for a moment, eyeing the bridge. John and Arthur leaned against the depot wall, arms folded, watching.

“We shoulda gotten the dynamite,” John murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "Ain't no damn way she's gonna take that bridge down."

“Best watch your mouth, boy, that girl can probably hear the heart beating in your chest from fifty yards away.”

John scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Like hell.”

“He's right, you know,” Rane said from up ahead, not looking back. “You might wanna get that arrhythmia checked out, maybe watch your cholesterol.”

John paled a little, placing a palm over his chest. Rane had turned at last and was presently striding toward them, drawing her wand.

“I think I can do it, but I need some booze,” she said. “And that was a joke, by the way,” she added, smirking at John. “If you really think I can hear your heartbeat from all the way over there, then I’ve grossly oversold myself.”

"What the hell you need booze for?" said Arthur.

"Because I'm nervous, for some reason," Rane admitted, looking a little rueful. "Not about the bridge, just . . . I dunno. It's weird, I can't shake it off and I don't want to fuck this up."

Arthur eyed her a moment, thinking back to that . . . episode, or whatever it had been, back on the road leading in. He dug into his satchel, making a mental note to bring it up with her later, once the work was done. He wasn't sure what exactly was going on there, but it felt important, whatever it was. Maybe a little dangerous, too.

“Here.” He tossed her a flask. She caught it deftly and drank long, eyes shut. “You feelin’ okay? Besides nervous, I mean?”

“I don’t know why you guys keep asking me that,” said Rane, sighing roughly and throwing the flask back to Arthur. She waggled her shoulders, loosening herself, hopping around a little. “Okay. You guys ready to see some cool shit?”

“Does it mean we don’t have to go back there for them mining charges?” said John, still rubbing his chest a little warily.

Rane nodded. “It do, it do.”

“Then yeah, have at ‘er.” He nodded to the bridge. “I wanna see this.”

Rane rolled her head on her neck a final time, then turned to the bridge, aiming her wand and squaring her shoulders, setting her feet apart. She puffed out a quick breath through pursed lips, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“Okay, okay. Here we go. You’re comin’ down, babydoll.” She aimed her wand, twirled it elaborately, and taking a step forward shouted, “BOMBARDA MAXIMA!”

Nothing at all happened. Rane remained where she was for a moment, wand still extended, eyes on the bridge. Arthur cleared his throat.

“Well, I guess we’re gonna be takin’ volunteers to head back and grab that dynamite, then -”

“No, no, I’m just out of practice,” said Rane, resettling her feet and cracking her neck, frowning. “Haven’t done this one in a while. Dry run. Okay, here we go, here we go . . . BOMBARDA MAXIMA!”

This time, it worked. There was a massive explosion in the center of the bridge, burgeoning into a mushroom cloud of red and blue flames, sending a giant plume of black smoke into the air and creating a sound so loud it echoed off the walls of the gorge like guncracks. Rane, Arthur and John all clapped their hands over their ears. A rush of hot air blew past them, kicking up dead leaves and dust, and all three of the horses reared, braying wildly. Both Arthur and John staggered back, eyes widening. Rane pocketed her wand, watching with grinning satisfaction as the bridge crumbled into the waters below, the steel groaning beneath the heat of the fires.

“Well, slap butter on my ass and call me a biscuit!” Arthur bellowed, laughing.

“Told you!” Rane shouted back, beaming at him. She spread her hands expansively, laughing. “I still got it, baby!"

“Holy shit,” said John, the fire reflecting in his eyes, watching flaming chunks of wood and metal rain down into the crevasse. “I’ll be double fucked.”

“Okay, get over here,” Arthur was beckoning to Rane, still speaking loudly over the ringing in his ears. “We’re gonna camp up someplace and take a load off, just the three of us, and then when the time comes we go find Dutch and the rest. Y'all good with that?”

"Fine with me," said John, still watching the bridge collapse.

“I’m starving," said Rane, stroking Eli reassuringly. "Destroying bridges is hungry work.”


	44. Possum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, John and Rane take a short break after the bridge job before heading back to camp for the big event

_The car's on fire, and there's no driver at the wheel_   
_And the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides_   
_And a dark wind blows_

_The government is corrupt_   
_And we're on so many drugs_   
_With the radio on and the curtains drawn_

_We're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine_   
_And the machine is bleeding to death._

**\- Godspeed You! Black Emperor**

_________________

The three of them made camp some half a mile from the bridge, and from the start of it the levels of discomfiture, now that the job itself was completed, rose to fever pitches. Arthur was the worst at coping with it by a long shot, muttering gruffly and shuffling off immediately in search of firewood, leaving Rane and John sitting around the campfire alone.

“He is _super_ uncomfortable,” Rane remarked at length. She was sitting cross-legged, leaned against a tree, pulling apart a pinecone idly. “I mean, he’s full on out of sorts, the guy.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you ain’t figured it out yet, but Arthur ain’t exactly the smoothest feller in the world,” John murmured. He was opposite her, legs stretched in front of him, smoking. “He might be a three-jump cowboy when he's workin', but when it comes to women he might as well be warmin' up leftover snow. Just useless about it. Ain't no wonder he never married."

Rane gestured at the roaring fire before them. “I mean, I _told_ him before he left that I could make a fire without any more firewood -”

“Yeah, I know, I heard ya say it, too -”

“So what is he _doing_?”

John shrugged. “Can't say. Bein' awkward, most likely.”

  
  
“Maybe I should go after him.”

“Nah, nah.” John got to his feet, waving a hand and flicking his smoke away. “Let me. You stay put.”

Arthur was squatting some ways off, out of sight of the campfire, peering over the gorge beyond, one hand stroking his unshaven chin, his brow furrowed and his other hand hanging lax against his knee. He hadn’t gathered any firewood, and he hadn’t come up with an excuse why not yet, either; right now, his mind was elsewhere. On Dutch, on this train job, and - of course - on Rane. He had never seen her behave the way she did on the road back there, and his gut told him that it was not so much a random episode as a slipping of her control over something he could not understand. Moreover, there was this marriage business, which was causing him far more anxiety than he was prepared to let on. He didn’t have a ring, for starters - how the fuck did he not have a ring, anyways? How stupid was he? And where was he going to get one?

_I still got the one I was gonna give to Mary_ , he thought, then shook his head. That wasn’t right, giving her a secondhand ring. _Saint Denis, then . . . there’s gotta be a -_

“Hey.”

Arthur drew his pistol, whirling around and falling back onto his ass. John lifted both hands, looking amused.

“Whoa, now. It’s just me, you jumpy son of a bitch.”

“Dammit, Marston.” Arthur holstered his gun, glaring at John and settling back, resting his hands on the grass. “You keep sneakin’ up on folks and you’re liable to get shot.”

John sat beside him, dangling his hands between his knees. “What the hell are you doin’ sitting out here? Rane already made a fire back there, she don’t need any more wood. Not that you collected any,” he added, eyeing Arthur’s empty arms.

“Ah, shit. I dunno.” Arthur ran both hands through his hair. “I got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Like what?”

Arthur rubbed at his chin, fingers roving on the smooth swell there. It was the first time he'd been clean-shaven in at least a couple of weeks, and the first time he'd done it on account of a woman in far longer than that. Just another testament to how sunk into this he was, as if he needed any more.

“I gotta tell ya somethin’, and I don’t want you to repeat it,” said Arthur, very low. He hesitated, then added, “it might not be easy for you to hear, and I want ya to know I ain’t doin’ it to spite you or to cause you any grief.”

John nodded warily, watching him. “Okay.”

“I asked Rane to marry me. And she accepted.” Arthur coughed roughly into a curled fist. “We’re tryin’ to get Swanson to ordain tomorrow, if everything goes right.”

John looked at Arthur’s profile, his brow furrowed, chewing his lower lip. “That so?”

“Yeah, just about.” Arthur looked sidelong at him uneasily, wringing his hands. “You feel raw about it?”

John shook his head, meeting Arthur’s eyes, feeling a touch of grim, ironic amusement. Had it been five minutes ago that he was detailing to Rane why Arthur wasn't married? Less than that? Telling it right to his fiancee the whole time, no less.

“Nah. Nah, I ain’t upset.” He pursed his lips, then added, “she loves ya, Arthur. She don’t want me. Even if I want her, which I guess you probably figured out by now.”

Arthur turned away, frowning and awkward. “Shit. I’m sorry, John. Truly I am. I wouldn’t have gone after a lady you were sweet on if I had any other choice. It just sprung up, wasn't nothin' to be done about it.”

“Predetermined.”

“Huh?”

“Just somethin’ she said the other night.” John sighed, rubbing at his face. “I guess it is what it is. You always were the high roller when it came to women.”

Arthur snorted. “With regards to what? Mary? Shit, she didn’t even want me around half the damn time.”

“Oh hell.” John snorted derisively, leaning back on his elbows. “They all wanted you, you were just too dumb to see it. Always sayin’ some stupid shit and scarin’ ‘em off. Remember that time you had them three girls in that saloon playin’ after ya all at once? And I said, ‘look at this bunch of lovely ladies?’”

Arthur laughed heartily. “Oh, Christ.”

“What’d you say? Go on, tell it back, you old bastard.”

“I said, ‘I don’t see no ladies around here,’” said Arthur, still laughing. “And they all run off.”

John was laughing now, too. “Ruined the damn night for both of us with your big mouth.”

“Well, I was only kidding with ‘em, they just took it wrong, is all.”

“Yeah, well. I guess Rane knows how to take ya.”

Arthur’s smile faded. “Yeah, she sure does.”

John shook his head, rubbing his chin. “I dunno quite what happened to her back on that road, Arthur, but it scared me a little bit. Like . . . I dunno, like seein’ a ghost or somethin’. Made my hair stand on end.”

“Yeah, I know it. I got a little bit of an idea, but . . . there’s so much I don’t know about her.” He glanced at John, chewing his thumbnail. “Bad enough, all the magic shit without throwin’ this into the mix. Ideas are all I got, sometimes I think even she don't really get it.”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur shook his head. “Somethin’ to do with her mama not bein’ an Elf. I don’t know that I understand it very well. That thing that happened to her eyes, that ain’t all she can do, it’s like she can push it out and use it like a weapon, whatever it is.”

“Huh." John chewed his lip, staring at Arthur's profile pensively. "You notice how she didn’t even remember it none?”

  
  


“Mm-hmm. I reckon we might shouldn’t bring it up with her just now. We got enough trouble to be getting along with. Dutch, and all.”

John nodded grimly, shifting his weight. “Yeah. I had a lot of time to think in that jail, and . . . well, I just don’t think I know Dutch no more. And this plan to get us out, it just feels . . . I dunno. It’s like he just wants to create more enemies. More chaos.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, I love Dutch. He saved me a long time ago. But I feel like, in Saint Denis . . . when I got arrested, maybe he coulda _done_ somethin’.” John shrugged. “He just watched, Arthur, just _looked_ at me while it happened. Then he turned around and ran. If it had been you or Rane standing there instead of him, I probably wouldn’t have gotten put away. That’s what I think. Either one of you woulda fought for me. At least a little bit. Dutch, though . . . ” He shook his head. “Nothin’.”

Arthur let the silence stand between them for a long moment, deciding how to proceed.

“John, listen.” He turned to face him. “I feel like you should take your woman and child and get lost.”

“Do you?” John was watching him, his expression a little reticent.

“What reason you got to stick around at this point? It’s done, I don’t see no way outta any of this.”

“Well, what about loyalty?”

Arthur scoffed. “That’s long been broken. We’ve _been_ loyal. Look what that caused.” He grasped John’s shoulder in one hand, meeting the younger man’s eyes. “Listen to me. When the time comes, you gotta run and don’t look back. This is over.”

John nodded, looking at him. “What are you gonna do?”

“Shit.” Arthur shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I wanna take Rane and get the hell outta here. Try and have a normal life someplace for a little while.” He shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “I don’t know, John. I’ve been in this gang better than twenty years, I ain’t even sure that I remember how normal folk go about it.”

John sighed, passing a hand over his face. “I know how you mean.”

Arthur got laboriously to his feet, coughing a little into his fist. “Well. Come on, we oughta get back. She’s probably wonderin’ where the hell we are by now.”

John took his proffered hand, getting up as well, and met Arthur’s eyes a moment.

“You ain’t half so mean as you make out,” he said, low. “That's what I think."

Arthur snorted, starting away. “Whatever you say. Just try not to get eaten by any wolves on the way back.”

He voiced a low howl, glancing back at John wryly. John rolled his eyes.

“Never mind, you’re just an asshole.”

Rane was lying on her back at the campfire when Arthur and John strode back up, arms behind her head, legs crossed and boot wiggling.

"And lo, the prodigal sons return," she said without looking up. "Excuse me while I go slaughter a fatted calf."

"You know, in some places they hang folks for talkin' that way," said Arthur wryly, sitting down next to her with a grunt. "Or burn 'em at stake, if they're feelin' froggy."

“Goodness gracious, what a positively _raffish_ thing to say!" cried Rane demurely, clutching her chest and staring at the sky overhead with an expression of injured shock. "To suggest that I endorse such - such _heathen beliefs_ -!"

"Oh, shut up," Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes. John was laughing.

Rane sat up, grinning and brushing her jeans off. "So how long do we wait before we head out?”

“Well, I figure the train’s passin’ through Saint Denis close to dusk, so we give ‘er a couple hours, head back and round up the rest of the boys. That’ll give Dutch a chance to cool off, anyways, after all that shit this morning, I’m sure he’s still back there lookin’ for a dog to kick.”

“I ain’t so sure this whole operation is such a great idea right now,” John remarked, low. “I mean, me just busted outta jail, Pinkertons sniffin’ around, all these magical fellers out lookin’ for Rane, hell we’re just askin’ for a necktie social the way we’re goin’ -”

“ _Thank_ you, John, that’s _exactly_ what I said.” Rane cast Arthur a vindicated look. “It’s a terrible idea for all those reasons, too, but it’s a _really_ terrible idea because it’s the goddamn _Army_ you’re stealing from -”

“How’s it any different than robbin’ a bank? Or a stagecoach?” Arthur had gotten up and strode to his mount, fumbling with the saddlebags. He glanced over his shoulder at Rane when she didn’t answer right away, grinning. “See? You don’t even _know_ , do ya? You’re just scared of the damn government! All we gotta do is shoot a couple of them military dragoons outta the way, there ain’t nobody gonna live long enough to squeal on us!”

“Take it easy there, Son of Sam.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, it ain’t no damn different.” Arthur was striding back to the fire, now carrying the possum he’d shot earlier by the tail. “Hell, we robbed _dozens_ of trains over the years, ain’t never had a job go sour on us yet, ain’t that right, John?”

John watched him skeptically as Arthur sat back down at Rane’s side, placing the possum over his knees. “Eh,” he said noncommittally, shrugging. “I guess none of us ever _died_ , anyways.”

“See there?” Arthur pulled his pocket knife, readjusting the possum on his lap. Its head lolled lifelessly on its neck, tongue hanging loosely out of the side of its mouth.

"Except for Jenny," John amended. "And Mack. And Davy. And -"

"Well, for the most part, sure," said Arthur hastily. “It ain’t gonna go sideways, we’ll be alright. Shit, I bet most of the boys that’ll be on that train are barely old enough to grow fuzz on their peaches, they’ll be so wet behind the ears it’ll be like fish in a barrel -”

“That makes it even worse,” Rane remarked. She was eyeing the possum on Arthur’s lap warily, leaning away from him a little. “Whatcha got there, sport?”

“Well, I was gonna let Pearson have it, but seein’ as how we ain’t gonna be back to camp for a while yet -” Arthur plunged the knife abruptly into the possum’s scant throat, yanking its matted pelt away with his fist and exposing shiny pink muscle. Rane recoiled, pulling a face. “I figured we might could cook him up for the three of us.”

“Pass,” said Rane, watching this event nauseously.

“What? How come?” Arthur cast her a wounded look over the carcass. “You think I can’t cook or somethin’?”

“Possum’s good eatin’,” John agreed, lighting a cigarette beneath his closed fists. “Like chicken but springier. Right, Arthur?”

“Ain’t no different than rabbit, just a little tougher,” Arthur added, and with a quick, brutal motion ripped the skin clean off the possum. The sound was like tearing carpet and Rane staggered to her feet, one forearm slung over her mouth, gagging hoarsely. John and Arthur both burst out laughing.

“Look at that, girl slices a man’s head clean off but a dead rodent has her damn near pukin’ her guts out,” John bawled, slapping a knee.

“IT’S A MARSUPIAL AND THAT’S DISGUSTING!” Rane said loudly, still bent over her knees in the brush, trying to hold her gorge.

“You want me to dice you up some pinecones instead, sweetheart?” Arthur asked her primly, rolling up the shorn possum skin and stuffing it into his satchel. “Maybe a couple woodchuck turds? Season ‘em up a little bit, ‘lil sprig of parsley and all that?”

Rane cast him a dire look over one shoulder, one hand clamped over her mouth. John was roaring.

“I,” she said loftily behind her palm, “will not be eating possum tonight, sir.”

She made it about an hour and a half before the smell started to really wear her down. Arthur had field-dressed and spitted the possum rather expertly over the crackling fire, propping up the long, sharp stick that went from throat to tail with two more with what Rane was sure was the ease of long practice, and once the fat had simmered away, it looked like nothing so much as a rotisserie chicken to Rane (the head had been mercifully removed). How long had it been since she’d had a mouthful of slow-roasted chicken? There had been a place near the Ministry of Magic that would make the most incredible Tuscan chicken penne pasta, she’d stopped there once or twice a week for a big, steaming plate of it . . . all spinach and tomato and parmesan and basil, with a big, hot wad of French bread on the side . . . 

Rane swallowed thickly at the thought. Arthur, who was leaned back on one elbow, smoking idly at her side, watched her with grim amusement.

“You look kinda hungry,” John remarked from the other side of the fire. He was leaning against a tree trunk, both legs stretched out and crossed in front of him, picking at his fingernails with his pocketknife. 

Arthur leaned forward and pulled the possum off the fire, inspecting it before his face, the meat steaming in the humid air. He reached forward and tore off a mouthful from the thigh, chewing thoughtfully. After a moment his face fell into exaggerated lax pleasure.

“Oh, boy, ain’t that good,” he said, rolling his eyes. He leaned toward Rane, still chewing. “C’mere, gimme a kiss, darlin’, while I still taste like it -”

“Ugh! _No_!” Rane leaned away from him, her mouth pulled down. John was laughing.

“Just try a little bit, hell, quit bein’ such a chickenshit,” John said, gesturing. “It ain’t so damn bad as you’re makin’ it out to be.”

Rane sighed, rubbing her face. She beckoned. “Okay, just - a tiny little piece, I’m starving.”

Arthur pulled a strip of meat off the possum and handed it to her. She held it between her fingers for a moment, eyeing it distastefully, then crammed it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, placing the back of her hand over her mouth.

“Well?” said Arthur, grinning.

Rane looked at him a moment, then turned and spat it out behind her, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. John burst out laughing.

"I don't know where you went to culinary school, but I hope you kept the receipt," Rane remarked, laughing herself.

“Oh, hell.” Arthur waved a dismissive hand at her, looking quite insulted. “Sorry I ain’t got any caviar on hand.”

“I’ll let it go this one time.”

“Oh, that right?” Arthur leaned toward her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her near, grinning. “You gonna let it go this one time?”

“It better not happen again.” Rane was smirking up at him, her gaze flicking between his eyes and his mouth unabashedly. “I don’t hang out with dudes who can’t cook for shit, as a general rule, it’s kind of a disqualification -”

“Well, that’s lucky, because I don’t bother with ladies who’re too fancy to eat possum every now and then,” Arthur growled, lowering his grinning mouth to hers and kissing her. “You better make some changes pretty quick there, darlin.’”

“I don’t take orders from handsome men,” Rane murmured against his lips, her smile broad, liking the sensation of his grin against her kiss. “You’re shit outta luck, kid.”

“Yeah, well I don’t take orders from pretty girls, so I guess we’re -”

“Hey, it’s gettin’ on,” said John loudly, straightening and looking thoroughly discomfited. Rane and Arthur broke apart, both looking abruptly awkward. “We oughta get movin’.”

“Yeah, sure.” Arthur yanked the rest of the possum off the spit and wrapped it into a bit of cloth, stowing it into his pack and getting to his feet. He paused as he did, bending over to cough roughly into his fist, and Rane eyed him uneasily until he quit, his eyes a little red. “Yeah, we oughta get movin’, you’re right, it’s gettin’ on.”

It happened again as they were tacking the horses to head back to Beaver Hollow; Rane went away from them. She was halfway to tightening Eli’s saddle when both her hands simply fell lax at her sides, her head rolling back on her neck, staring up at the canopy, her shoulders sinking. Eli reached back and nuzzled her, causing her to stumble back a step, but the response was automatic, no more remarkable than a shin's response to a reflex hammer; her eyes were bright blue again, and the wind around her was picking up, cold as winter.

“Shit.” John was watching her over Old Boy’s back, wary. He slapped Arthur's shoulder lightly with the back of his hand. “Arthur, she’s gettin’ weird again.”

“My name is fire,” she murmured, her voice distant and lilting. “ _Nin am’nar_. Not born to die. Draws near now. More quickly.”

“Rane!” Arthur said loudly. “RANE!”

She didn't react to his risen voice this time, only continued to gaze at the sky, muttering under her breath, her eyes pale and strange. Arthur picked up a pinecone at his feet and hucked it at her, and not gently. It bounced off her temple, clattering off into the brush. She jerked roughly, staring at him, shocked.

“What the _fuck_ , Arthur?” she snapped, rubbing her head ruefully.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” said Arthur, abandoning pretense, his voice strident. “You keep havin’ fits or somethin’! Your eyes are changin’ and you’re sayin’ crazy stuff and blowin’ wind around and shit! The hell is goin’ on?”

Rane stared at him, her face falling a little, her brows knitting. “What are you talking about?”

"Well, I don't know! You're startin' to scare me!" Arthur continued to stare at her, his brow knitted. "If that shit starts happening when we're balls deep in this train job tonight with bullets flyin' around -!"

"What are you talking about, having fits?" Rane repeated, walking around Eli and facing him, looking bewildered. "What do you mean, 'fits?'"

"Twice now you went funny," said John from where he stood next to Old Boy. "Sayin' strange things and mutterin'."

"And your eyes changed, they got all blue the way they did on Guarma." Arthur reached forward and smoothed her hair away from her forehead, looking down at her with genuine anxiety. "Rane, I don't like seein' it, it's got me feelin' real nervous."

Rane looked at both of them for a long moment, chewing her lip, her brow knitted.

"I'm fine," she said at last, shaking her head.

"I don't think you're fine, I think you're tryin' to talk me down." Arthur was watching her shrewdly.

Rane looked at him a long moment, her brow furrowed. Then she turned from him, mounting Eli in a swift motion, pulling him around. Arthur watched her uneasily.

"Hey," he said. "Don't you ignore me."

"I wanna think for a few minutes before I talk to you about this," said Rane, not looking at him. "Is that okay?"

Arthur sighed, rubbing his face, then turned and mounted his own horse, coughing a little as he did. "Right."


	45. Back to Beaver Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, Arthur and John head home in preparation for the coming job

_A soldier on my own, I don't know the way_   
_I'm riding up the heights of shame_   
_I'm waiting for the call, the hand on the chest_   
_I'm ready for the fight, and fate_   
_The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head_   
_The thunder of the drums dictates_   
_The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead_   
_The rising of the horns, ahead_

\- **Woodkid**

___________________________

Rane rode a trifle ahead of John and Arthur as they made their way back toward camp, close-mouthed and clearly avoiding conversation. Arthur allowed this to go on for as long as he could stand, watching the back of her head and the gentle sway of her long back, before spurring his horse on and pacing Eli. John hung back, watching this a trifle uneasily.

“Okay, you had your couple minutes.” He was watching her profile impatiently. “Talk to me about what happened to you back there.”

“Does it really matter?”

“Is that rhetorical?”

Rane glanced sidelong at him, one eyebrow cocked. “Maybe it just seems that way because you can’t think of an answer.”

Arthur scoffed, looking a little scandalized. “ _Yeah_ , it matters. It matters to _me_ a hell of _lot._ That you’re bein’ honest with me if nothing else.”

Rane turned her eyes back to the trail, pursing her lips. Arthur didn’t let up.

“Look, I’m gettin’ ready to marry you, for Christ's sake, you gotta learn about bein’ straight with me. I need you to talk to me about this.”

“What makes you think I know?” Rane asked him, glancing over at him, her hair blowing across her face. “What makes you think I can tell you anything about it?”

“Because you lived a whole ‘nother life before you showed up in Lemoyne while you were dealin’ with whatever the hell is the matter with you,” said Arthur. “And because I know you know, Rane, moreover. You get specious when you’re lyin’. And glib.”

“I didn’t realize my fiance had a thesaurus built into his brain all this time.”

“Quit it.”

“Quit _what_?”

“Tryin’ to distract me from what I’m askin’, appealing to my sentiment. Just because I look like a big dumb bastard don’t mean I am one, I’m warnin’ ya.” He flapped a hand at her. “At least tell me what ya think.”

Rane sighed, pushing her long hair behind her ears and pursing her lips. Eli was eyeing Arthur warily, his ears pinned, clearly discomfited by his nearness.

"Okay, well . . ." Rane sighed, rubbing at her face. "There's a part of me that isn't _me_ , strictly speaking. Part of me is this . . . this other person. Not - _person_ ," she amended quickly, looking frustrated. "Like a sort of . . . fuck, I don't know how to explain it."

"What the hell are you talkin' about, _another person_?"

"I'm trying to tell you, Arthur, it's just hard." Rane sighed, rubbing her face. "She's an ainur. I don't know if she's me or I'm her or something else, but she's . . . she's _in_ me, or _with_ me, or some fucking thing."

"A what, now?" Arthur looked utterly baffled by this.

"She's kind of . . . a primordial spirit, I guess. And I realize that doesn't sound like it makes any sense, because it _doesn't_ make any sense, but . . . but that's what I know. From my dad, and from what I've read."

"What you've read?"

"A prophecy. It's a prophecy, that an ainur would be reborn as a half-human one day." Rane spoke these words quick and low, feeling foolish.

Arthur laughed, sounding equal parts skeptical and taken aback. "Like Jesus?"

" _No_ , not like _Jesus!_ " said Rane sharply, flushing. "No! Not like that at _all!_ "

"It's a prophecy about a god coming down as a person? Sounds an awful lot like Jesus to me."

" _No_ , ainur aren't -" Rane sighed, frustrated, her face red. "Look, forget that part. I'm trying to answer your question."

“Well, you ain’t answered shit yet,” said Arthur. “And we’re comin’ up on camp. Talk to me like I ain’t an idiot for a change.”

"I'm not talking to you like you're an _idiot_ , Arthur, I'm talking to you like someone who isn't intimately familiar with the minutia of Eldar creed, that's all," Rane corrected him, meeting his eyes. "This isn't exactly the easiest thing to discuss with someone who has no idea about how any of it works -"

"Well, I don't think I need to understand the minutia to know whether or not you're gonna get hurt," Arthur interrupted her brusquely. "I don't want a damn history lesson. I don't care none for any of that shit, I just care for you and what's happenin' to you."

“You wanna go all Socratic method on me? Fine.” Rane shifted her weight, looking unhappy. “This is what the Elves call _umbarae_. It’s a feeling that we get, when something bad is about to happen. Like a . . . a feeling of dread. This has happened to me before, when things were about to go sideways, but it’s stronger now, for some reason. Maybe because I died? I have no idea. It’s something I don’t understand all the way. Like she’s trying to communicate with me, to tell me things, while I’m still awake. She seems really close.”

“Who?”

“Varda.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“The ainur.”

“Rane, none of this shit is answerin’ my _question_.” Arthur looked bothered and fretful. “I still ain’t hearin’ what happened. You sayin' this person, Varda, she's tryin' to take control of you or somethin'? And it's causin' you to go all funny?”

"No." Rane was shaking her head. "No, I think she's just . . . powerful. It kind of knocks me on my ass, is all. I really don’t know, all I have are theories.” Rane sighed. “I think it’s just . . . _her_. Manifesting more strongly. Because this is . . . I dunno, the second go around.” Rane shrugged, looking at him. “Listen, at this point it doesn’t matter, because to be perfectly honest, I have no fucking _idea_ what’s happening to me. Half of the shit I can do, I don’t know why I can do it. There’s no, like, collegiate data to draw on for something like this. I’ve just tried to keep moving along, no matter what weird shit happens to me.”

“ _Umbarae_.”

“Yeah.” Rane was chewing her lip.

“You know somethin’ bad is gonna happen, but you don’t know what.”

Rane shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Arthur sucked his teeth. “What a gip. All foam and no beer.”

“You’re telling me.” Rane glanced alongside at him, her face naked. “I don’t like to talk about this stuff, Arthur, it’s scary to me. I’m finding most this stuff out for the first time as it happens to me, and I don't have anyone to explain it to me, I just have to . . . hope for the best. You understand?”

Arthur sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. Camp was coming into view, Charles guarding the trail and eyeing them suspiciously up ahead. “Alright. As long as it won’t hurt ya.”

“It won’t,” said Rane, not knowing if this was true or not.

“You good for tonight? You ain’t gonna have another fit and freeze up and get shot down?” Arthur was eyeing her with real anxiety. “I don’t think I can handle that, which is why I ask. Totally selfish, I admit it.”

“Who goes there?” Charles called from up ahead.

“John and Arthur and Rane!” John called from some ways behind them, lifting a hand.

“I love you,” Rane said softly, meeting Arthur’s eyes. His gaze softened at this a little.

“I know you do, I love you too. I just wanna know you’re safe.”

Rane cast him a lopsided grin, trying to look more confident than she felt. “I’ve thrown off worse shit than a few army kids, I think I’ll be fine, babydoll.”

She spurred Eli into a canter, bypassing him and tipping Charles a salute. Arthur watched her go, frowning, then followed.

DUTCH was not in evidence, once again, and Arthur, dismounting from his horse aside Old Boy, grasped John’s shoulder roughly, aiming a finger.

“I want you to go find him,” he said softly, not specifying who he meant. It wasn’t necessary. “Just let him know shit’s movin’ along. Okay?”

“Why, what are you gonna do?” John asked, looking a little resentful. “I wanna go see about Abigail and Jack.”

“I know ya do. And it ain’t fair of me to ask, but I wanna see Swanson.”

John sighed, looking unimpressed, then turned and stode off with his usual loping gait.

“Swanson’s gone,” said a voice near at hand. Both Arthur and John spun around. Karen stood there, stuffing a wad of dresses into a suitcase.

“What? Gone where?” Arthur asked, bewildered.

“Just gone.” Karen swung a hand toward the horizon. “Cut out. I ain’t far behind him, I ain’t shy to say.”

Her words were fairly cavalier, but Rane saw the way her eyes darted around when she said them nonetheless. She was unnerved, clearly.

“What?” Arthur eyed her, startled. “You’re _leavin_ ’? Why?”

Karen cast him a cool, rather hurt look. “Well, what cause for me to stay, since Sean is gone? Huh? Watch Dutch make more crazy plans and lead us all to hell? I’ll give that a pass, thanks very much, no offense.”

She snatched up her suitcase and strode off haughtily. Rane watched her go, brow furrowed.

“Well, shit,” said Arthur, his shoulders sagging.

“Forget it.” Rane reached up, taking his face in both of her hands and kissing his mouth firmly, meeting his eyes. “I love you. It doesn’t matter.”

Arthur took her hands in his own against his cheeks. “Rane, listen, I wanna _do_ this, I can’t just -”

“ _Forget it_ ,” Rane repeated, and smoothed his hair back gently. “I already know I love you, Arthur, I don’t need a receipt for it. I’m not going to bring you back for a refund. We can worry about that later.”

Arthur laughed, low, but he grasped her face in his own hands, his eyes bright. “Rane, this means a lot to me, I want it.”

“Then we’ll do it later. It’s okay.” Rane ran a hand down his cheek. “We’ll get there, Swanson isn’t the only holy man in the world. Right now we just need to do what we need to do. Make friends with your boss man, so we can get this job done.”

Arthur pursed his mouth, nodding, then kissed her briefly before turning back, looking around and waving.

“Dutch! You ready?”

Dutch was striding forth some ways away with John and Micah in tow, his eyes on Rane. As he approached them, a broad grin stretched across his face.

“Pearson!” he said as he drew near, spreading his arms. “And old Uncle! They both said to Tilly they were runnin’ for their lives. I think young Mary-Beth ran as well!”

Arthur's heart sank at this. Dutch arrived before Arthur, placing his hand in his pockets, looking at him with a sort of polite, grim interest.

“You know about this?”

“‘Course I didn’t know about it,” Arthur replied, looking insulted. “Why would I know about it?”

“They are cowards, Arthur, goddamned cowards.” Dutch was pacing before them now, stroking his chin restlessly. “Of all the time to run off -”

“Maybe they don’t want to die, Dutch.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna -”

Arthur was taken abruptly by another fit of coughing, and as he leaned over, his fist curled before his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut, Rane saw Dutch watching this with an unsympathetic eye, impatient, almost annoyed. His next words were kind enough, but his eyes spoke multitudes nonetheless.

“Look, this ain’t good timin’, and you ain’t well.”

Rane’s eyes snapped up to him at this, suddenly fiery. He _knew_ Arthur was sick, he _knew_ , and yet he pushed him. The fury that flared in her chest was almost more than she could contain.

"You know this dude for twenty years and 'your illness is an inconvenience' is all the empathy you can manage?"

"Girl," said Dutch grimly, not looking at her. "I had about enough of your mouth today, believe it or not -"

“You wanna do this train job without me?” Rane asked him. Her heart was beating very quickly beneath her shirt as she met his eyes, her mouth turned down with genuine ire. “You want me to sit this one out?”

Dutch eyed her, then shook his head. “No, I do not.”

“Then listen to what he has to say,” said Rane, low. “You owe him that much.”

"Oh, well. If the lady says." Dutch gestured expansively to Arthur. "Let us all hear what you have to say, Arthur, since our young Miss Roth says it ought to be so."

Arthur was beginning to get his cough under control, straightening. “If we let Jack and Abigail and the women go, well, then maybe we could -”

"Son. I cannot do that."

"Why? Why the hell _not_?"

“Arthur, all we need is one more score!” Dutch brandished a clenched fish before his face. “One more big score and we got enough to leave all this shit behind us! The Pinkertons, the army -!”

“You don’t know what you’re sayin’, Dutch,” said Arthur, low.

“We rob Uncle Sam and we leave. The _poetry_ of it all.”

“Dutch, the women, and the children -” Arthur gestured toward the camp, shaking his head. “John and his family. I’m afraid I have to insist. I mean, if the Pinkertons come through again, they will _kill everyone_.”

Dutch looked at Arthur a long moment, his eyes shaded beneath the brim of the bowler he always wore. Rane watched him warily, her hand on the helm of her sword, her eyes watchful beneath her brows.

“ _Insist_.” Dutch’s voice was low.

Arthur met his gaze squarely, his voice steely and unwavering. “Yes. Insist.”

There was a beat of silence, then Dutch raised his hands, regaining his old heartiness.

“Of _course_ , partner. Whatever you want.” He clapped Arthur on the shoulder, positively chummy. “Whatever you think is best, I will see to it. Now.” He glanced at Rane, smiling winningly. “We gonna rob a train?”

Rane met his eyes, unsmiling. “Yeah, we sure are.”

Dutch spread his arms, looking pleased, and clapped Rane’s shoulder as he passed her. She shrank beneath his grasp, pulling away without trying to conceal it, glaring at him.

“We will survive,” he was saying as he strode toward the horses hitched aft. “We will flourish. We have work to do. Get the rest of the boys and meet me yonder.”

“Alright, Dutch,” said Arthur, watching his back diminish. “Sure.”

He glanced sidelong at Rane, whose hand was still on the hilt of her sword. He nodded, catching her eyes.

“You keep that hand there,” he said, very low. “Just keep it there.”

“Oh, I mean to," Rane murmured, starting toward Eli. "I mean to."


	46. No Dynamite Necessary (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, John and Arthur deviate from the group as they ride to the final train job, discussing the situation

_A long time ago_

_We used to be friends_

_But I haven't thought of you lately at all_

_If ever again_.

**\- The Dandy Warhols**

__________________  
  


They rode away from Beaver Hollow in a loose group, Dutch in the lead. This time, Rane noticed that Arthur wasn’t beside him, nor John; it was Micah, astride his dark Fox Trotter, his back straight and his expression haughty. The cards were being shuffled right in front of them, plain as you please.

“What do you make of all this?” Sadie asked, pacing her horse with Rane and Arthur. “This train job, I mean? I ain’t never done a train job with you fellers before and I gotta say, this is all makin’ me a little bit nervous. Seems sloppy, the way we’re goin’ about it.”

“I think that when you’re fourth down and a hundred to go, you don’t call a running play up the middle,” said Rane, low and grim.

Sadie gaped at her. So did Arthur and John.

“The fuck are you talking about?” said John at length.

“Yeah, that don’t make no damn sense,” Arthur agreed, bewildered.

Rane gestured, looking displeased. “It’s football. You guys don’t know football? The hell’s wrong with you?”

The three of them looked at her with complete perplexity. Rane scoffed derisively.

“I think what he’s doing is desperate and stupid,” she amended. “This is a dumb idea. As I’ve mentioned to both of you guys,” she added, eyeing Arthur and John. “I’m not a military strategist or anything, but the whole ‘being quiet so we can get out of here’ plan seems to clash against this one a little bit.”

“Yeah, but the money -” John began.

“Oh, yeah, the _money_!” Rane agreed, putting on a fairly decent impression of Dutch. “The _money_ , just one more _score_! Then we can head off to Tahiti! Or _Australia_! Or _some_ fucking place! I got a _plan_ , I swear I got one, just have some _faith_! Everybody just suck my dick and kiss my ass for a little bit longer and you’ll be living the _dream_! Right?”

Sadie snorted into her forearm. John and Arthur looked less amused.

“That ain’t funny,” said John, glaring ahead solemnly. “This isn’t a joke.”

“It _is_ a joke, actually, a good one,” said Rane, low. “The joke is that you guys actually believe him.”

“Alright, well.” Sadie looked around at the three of them. “Maybe we oughta just focus on the job, so we don’t shit the bed, huh?”

“Yeah, let’s not shit the bed,” said Rane sardonically, leaning back in Eli’s saddle. “Shitting the bed, oh boy, that’s the _last_ thing we wanna do, right?”

“Rane, quit it,” said Arthur, low.

“Why? This whole operation is fugazi. You guys act like the dude is dropping dimes when he’s actually setting you all up to get shot on an Army train, the whole premise of this is goddamned ridiculous and it doesn’t take a fucking neuropathologist to spot it.” Rane was looking at him fiercely. “He’s not in his _right mind,_ Arthur, you know it just as well as I do. Your trust is misfounded, darlin’, and one of these days you’re gonna have to face the music about it.”

“Look, can we just -” Arthur waved a hand, looking a little distressed. “Can we just put this talk away for a minute? We got a job to do, and I can’t be havin’ this conversation half an hour before we do it. All this shit is hard enough as it is.”

Rane looked at him a moment longer, then shrugged, turning back to the trail. “You wanna rub some prayer beads, be my guest.”

“Look, we got an ace in the hole, and that’s you,” said John abruptly, looking at her, his gaze hard. “Help us get through this shit and we’ll move forward from there, alright? Christ, why do you always have to be so goddamned glib about everything?”

Rane watched him, a little chastened, then shook her head, reshuffling her grip on Eli’s reins.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“In body if not in spirit,” said Arthur, rolling his eyes.

Rane scoffed but offered no response. Up ahead, Dutch raised his voice.

“Alright, let’s pick up the pace!” he called, strident. “That train is due in Saint Denis in half an hour!”

“We’re gonna rob a train in the middle of a city?” Arthur shouted, frowning.

“Nah, nah, they’re just gonna stop there,” Dutch replied, not glancing back. “Pick up water and mail and drop off some boys on leave. We’ll take what we want later on down the line.”

“They know the bridge is blown, Black Lung!” Micah added, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur, his eyes glinting. “There’ll be a patrol past Annesburg, waiting down by the river to collect the money!”

“ _Black Lung_?” Rane said loudly, flaring, casting him a perilous look. “ _Black Lung_ , dickhead, really?”

“I said what I said, sweetheart,” Micah replied, dropping her a rather lecherous wink. “Come talk to me about it later on, why don’t ya.”

“ _Fucking_ -!” Rane dropped her voice, catching Arthur’s warning eye. “Fucking _asshole_!”

“Don’t antagonize him, Rane,” Arthur muttered sternly. “Remember what I said.”

“We sneak on quietly, and then we got a short time to stop the train before it reaches patrol,” Dutch was saying.

“What if someone in Saint Denis recognizes us from the bank?” said Rane.

“Then we will deal with them,” said Dutch without looking back, his voice grim. “John, you go get that dynamite, we’ll meet back up outside Saint Denis.”

“Me and Rane’ll go with him,” said Arthur immediately.

“As you wish!” Dutch cried, glancing over his shoulder, his expression derisive. “You two do what ya want to anyways, don’t ya? I wouldn’t want you and your _lady fair_ to be separated!”

Arthur glared at Dutch a moment longer, meeting his eyes. Something seemed to pass between them, something almost hostile. Then Arthur jerked his horse to the right, following John and Old Boy as they veered from the path. Rane guided Eli that direction, too, taking her cue.

“Come on, it’s this way,” John said, waving a hand. “Y’all follow me.”

  
  


THE three of them rode far enough away from the throng to be out of earshot, then John fell back, pacing Rane and Arthur.

“This is one big goddamned group of us to be ridin’ into Saint Denis,” John remarked.

“Yep. And I hear Pinkertons took over Van Horn.” Arthur scoffed. “It’s a damn suicide mission.”

“What the hell is Dutch _thinkin’_?”

“He ain’t.” Arthur glanced at Rane, who was trotting along beside him. “Do we need to bother with that dynamite, Rane?”

Rane shook her head. “Nah, I got it.”

“Alright, well then let’s hang back for a few,” John replied, heeling Old Boy. “I gotta wrap my head around all this.”

“What if you go all funny like before?” said Arthur, eyeing Rane. “We’ll be up a creek without a paddle.”

“Well then I guess, good sir, that I will have shit the bed,” said Rane decorously.

“This ain’t no joke,” said Arthur, his mouth thin. “Can ya? For sure?”

“Yes.” Rane nodded, meeting his gaze. “Stupid of Dutch not to ask me first, honestly. He’s got a Howitzer in his hands and he’s still going for the flare gun.”

“Yeah, well, he’s mad at ya,” said John, grim. “You’ll find that when Dutch gets mad, he tries like hell to scorn ya, even if it means he screws himself along the way.”

“Excellent business model,” Rane muttered, grimacing. “Sacrifice the self in order to continue looking cool. I see why you guys like him.”

“Are Abigail and Jack ready to go?” said Arthur, looking at John.

John shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, just about. Abigail said just now that she found somethin’, Arthur, she says Dutch has all the money hid in that cave at Beaver Hollow.”

Arthur scoffed skeptically. “He would never, not so close to camp.”

“He did.” John was nodding. “So much for keepin’ it outta sight. He’s got it all stashed right under our damn noses. He was gettin’ even sloppier than we thought. Tell me that ain’t a sign of the times.”

“What money?” Rane asked, looking between them.

Arthur shrugged. “Shit, _all_ of it. You don’t think we been stockpilin’ our stealings and such over the years? Hell, there must be thousands by now.” He shook his head, his eyes cold. “And Dutch has got all of it.”

“So that’s why you can’t cut out with Abigail and Jack,” said Rane, looking at John. It had all suddenly clicked for her. “Because you don’t have the cash.”

John shrugged. “Well, I ain’t got no trade except killin’, and Abigail's retired.” He shrugged. “What are we meant to do, you know?”

“Christ.” Rane shook her head, revolted. “He’s got you guys in a filibuster. That’s gross.”

“It don’t matter,” said Arthur, low. “Whatever happens today with this job, you three are gettin’ the hell outta here. And you ain’t goin’ empty handed, either.”

“What about you, what are you gonna do?” asked John. He gestured at Rane with one hand. “I assume you’re stickin’ together, either way.”

Arthur passed a hand over his face, sighing deeply and glancing sidelong at Rane. She met his eyes, chewing her lip, her eyes flicking between his.

“We’re gonna stick around and see if we can get everybody else out safe,” he said. “If we can manage to get away after that, then . . . well, I dunno. I guess we cut out, too. Won’t be no use stickin’ around here.”

“What do you mean, _‘if_ we get away?’” said Rane sharply.

“Well.” Arthur shrugged. “I dunno how it’s gonna play out, is all. We might all be shoppin’ for pine boxes by tomorrow, for all I know.”

Rane eyed him introspectively. Arthur snorted.

“Quit lookin’ at me that way, you know how I mean.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself being optimistic about him.” She reeled Eli around, back toward the road. “We should get going, they’ll be far enough along by now.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, glancing at the sky, squinting. The sun was low in the sky now. “Dutch said half an hour, we better get a move on.”

  
  


THE three of them rode after Dutch and the rest, spurring their horses into a fully fledged gallop to catch up. They caught sight of them on the outskirts of Saint Denis, shuffling about on horseback, watching the road. Rane could see Bill and Javier shielding their eyes from the setting sun’s brilliant red rays, watching for the kick of dust at the heels of their hooves.

“Ah, _there_ you lot are!” said Dutch as they drew near, pulling his mount around and beginning toward town proper. “You get what we need?”

“Yeah, just about.” Arthur’s tone was gruff and unwelcoming again. It was the first time Rane had ever heard him even come close to successfully lying to Dutch, and she found it a little augural, for some reason. The bond between them was hard-forged, from what she could see - Arthur had told her that as a boy he’d learned to read at Dutch’s knee, and shoot, and swindle, and be a man - but it was unraveling fast now, like a cut spool of thread. It was a strange thing to witness, something she was helpless to shield him against, and the expression of gentle, camouflaged hurt that flashed over his face as he spoke was sharp against her heart. He’d been skunked by someone he cared for, probably deeply, and he was reaping the results of his trust now. It was a hateful thing.

“One last time, gentlemen!” Dutch was crying heartily. “I got us a riverboat. We’ll head up to Chicago or New York and get us a real boat to the tropics.”

“So long as it isn’t Guarma,” Javier put in, smirking.

“Oh, it’ll be paradise, son!” Dutch cried, still sounding positively jolly. Rane thought again of the days after Hosea and Lenny had been gunned down, how positively chuffed he had seemed in spite of it all. “Paradise, I say! You just wait and see!”

“It’s all comin’ together, Dutch,” Micah crowed. “Just like we planned.”

“Is that okay with you, John? Arthur? Miss Roth?” Dutch didn’t look back, but his jovial, vivacious tone had taken on a cool thread of rancor. “Or do you _insist_ on somethin’ different?”

“Sounds about as good now as every time I heard it before,” John retorted, his voice betraying a touch of insurgency. Rane felt a rush of warmth towards him at the sound of it.

“Oh, Abigail must be real excited!” Micah cried, laughing. “All packed up like she is! I can just see her in a little grass skirt -!”

“Don’t talk to me, you son of a bitch!” John spat, flaring. Micah fell silent, but he cast a taunting look over one shoulder at John, his eyes glittering beneath his hat.

“Boys, boys, okay now, let’s keep it down.” Dutch raised a hand without looking back, palm down. “We don’t wanna draw attention to ourselves.”

“Ahh, Saint Denis.” Micah took a big, ersatz breath and released it. “Brings back good memories. Don’t it, John?”

“Will you shut up, Micah?” Arthur said roughly. “Christ, you are truly _incessant_!”

“I ain’t nothin if I ain’t persistent, Black Lung -”

“Shut UP!” Rane said loudly, glaring around. “Jesus _Christ_ , you guys, there are people looking! Shut the fuck _up_!”

They all hushed. Dutch cast an imperious look back at her over one shoulder, his eyes dark and hard beneath the rim of his hat.

“You don’t give orders here, Miss Roth.”

Rane cast him a mournful look. “Eat your heart out, baby.”

“You keep anglin’ for trouble and you might just find it,” Dutch said, his voice very low.

“Don’t you dare say nothin’ back,” Arthur hissed quickly as Rane opened her mouth, looking mutinous. “Don’t you fuckin’ _dare_.”

Rane sank back, turning her eyes to Eli’s mane, her knuckles white against the reins. Dutch turned back to the road.

“Just keep your tongue behind your damn teeth for once, baby,” Arthur muttered, and reaching out he grasped her thigh briefly, squeezing. “Just a little bit longer, alright?”

“Yeah, okay, fine.”

“I love you.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us does.”

Arthur scoffed, guiding his horse away from her. “You just focus on blowin’ shit up and lookin’ pretty, howabout that. Leave the difficult shit up to me.”

Rane straightened ceremoniously. “My _raison d’etre_ , yes, of course.”

“Oh, put your feathers away and quit it.” Arthur leaned over, yanked her face to his by the back of her neck and kissed her briefly. “You know what I mean, girl. You’re doin’ a good job at the second part so far, anyways.”

Rane scoffed, smirking at him. “Such a groupie.”

“Call it what ya want, I just love ya.”

“I love you too. I wouldn’t listen to you otherwise. No matter how cute you are.” Rane cast him a lopsided grin and spurred Eli on, her hair wavering behind her.

“She needs to get her eyes checked out,” John remarked, smirking.

“Oh, _shut_ the hell up!” Arthur snapped, laughing in spite of himself. “Goddamned asshole.”


	47. The Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The train job goes (mostly) well

_My pain is self-chosen_

_At least so the prophet says_

_I could either burn_

_Or cut off my pride and buy some time_

_A head full of lies is the weight tied to my waist_

_The river of deceit pulls down_

_The only direction we flow is down._

**\- Mad Season**

  
____________________

Dutch finally dismounted when they drew flush with the train station. The overcast skies had finally stopped threatening and started delivering; it was misting lightly, humid and cool, and as always the city smelled of piss and horseshit and exhaust. The steam rising from the cobblestone was white and dense, drifting up past the horses’ legs, making Arthur feel sticky and sweaty and discomposed.

He swung a leg off his horse, landing with both boots onto the damp road. The motion caused him to break into a bout of coughing, curling a fist over his mouth as he did. The burning pain that rose in the center of his chest as he did was familiar now, and he could feel Rane’s eyes lingering on him as he straightened at last, wiping his palm distractedly on his jeans, not needing to look down to see the red smear that was left in its wake. He’d seen more of his own blood the past few weeks than he had in his whole life, and he’d taken a lot of bullets and a lot of fists.

Arthur felt Rane’s hand touch the small of his back gently. He turned, trying to make himself seem at least somewhat composed. She was standing there before him, looking as impossibly lovely as usual, her hair a little frayed at the temples from the humidity, her dark brows knitted and her mouth turned down into a frown. She wasn’t dressed for the weather; she was clad in a filthy black button-down that clung to her lean torso and stopped at her elbows, and he could see the gooseflesh rippling down her forearms.

“You want my coat, darlin’?” he asked her, disliking the way his voice cracked on the last word. He could already feel a fresh volley of hawking threatening at the back of his throat.

Ignoring this, Rane licked her thumb, reached up and ran it along the corner of his mouth. Arthur saw the red there before she wiped it onto the shoulder of her shirt.

“Are you okay for this?” she asked him, her voice low.

“Never been better.” He tweaked her chin gently, smiling. "I keep sayin' it but it seems I must be hollering down the rain barrel, since you keep asking anyways."

“Dammit, Arthur, come on. What do I look like?”

"Just the prettiest lady I ever saw in my whole life, is all."

"No, knock it off."

Arthur watched her a moment, his blue eyes flickering between hers. Her face was quite naked, devoid of her usual bravado and grandiloquence, bare with her devotion to him. He was reminded of the night they’d spent at Shady Belle, her barely sober enough to draw breath and him proposing marriage with abandon. She’d looked at him with the same bare vulnerability now, the same vacancy of her typical hauteur and derision. Here, as then, there was only concern in her eyes, and love, raw and unrefined by ego.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and placed a kiss on her forehead. It was easy to do - she was four or five inches shorter than his six-one or so - and he was grateful, because bending over further aggravated his chest, and he didn’t want to cough anymore just now. “I’m okay.”

Rane grasped his hands briefly in hers as he drew back, meeting his gaze, perceptive and clear. She knew he was lying, but she was willing to accept it for the nonce. It was a sobering thing to witness.

“You stay close to me,” she muttered.

“They’d have a hard time dragging me away from you.”

"I mean it." Rane cast him a rather stern look, unsmiling. "Stay close to me. And don't do anything stupid."

"Alright, alright, Jesus." Arthur kept his voice light, but he wasn't blind to the humorless gaze she was throwing at him. "Lighten up, sweetheart. I done this a time or two."

“Okay, you lot,” Dutch said loudly to their left. “Sadie, Cleet, you take the middle. John, you and Rane and Arthur are gonna board at the back. Rest of ya, follow me and Micah and join once they stop the train.”

“Who’s this guy?” Rane asked, gesturing at Cleet.

“He’s a buddy of mine,” said Micah, casting her a cool glare. “You got issue, girl?”

"With some rando showing up out of nowhere?" Rane replied, eyeing Cleet with clear distaste. "If I didn't I'd think less of myself, yeah."

“You know, you sure do have a smart mouth for a woman.”

“I’ve got a smart blade, too, you wanna meet it? Keep talking shit and I’ll introduce you two.”

“Hey, HEY!” Dutch roared. "Christ, will you two shut the fuck up for a change? Feels like I asked you fifteen times already."

Micah pointed at Rane. She flipped him the bird from the waist.

“Alright, Jesus.” Dutch was massaging the bridge of his nose. “Here she comes.”

Arthur took a step forward, leaning over the rails, watching. The train was coming, indeed, big as a bastard, steam shooting away from its wheels. The problem was that it wasn’t decelerating.

“It’s goin’ awfully fast,” Bill remarked, clearly on the same track.

“She’ll stop.” Dutch sounded confident. “She’ll stop, alright.”

She didn’t. The train reached the station and barreled on past them, still at full speed, its wheels rushing, blowing all their hair back at its passing. Dutch watched this, his face distorted with fury, one protective hand on his hat to keep it from sailing off his head in the upsweep.

“Should I just sneak on now?” Arthur asked as the cars rolled by, his voice derisive. Rane snorted in spite of herself.

“God dammit.” Dutch watched the cars going past, kicking up gusts of dust. “Well, I guess . . . everybody mount up.”

“You’re still goin’ _through_ with this?” Arthur said sharply, grasping Dutch’s shoulder. Dutch jerked away, glaring at him.

“Of _course_ we are.” He was already striding toward his horse. “Come on.”

Rane strode toward Eli, swinging onto his back sinuously and reeling him around. The rest of them were galloping off after the train, and she spurred Eli after them, feeling uneasy.

“We can jump on at the side!” John shouted from up ahead.

The train was still a ways up, the steam of its exhaust hanging in the air, rank and cloudy. The train was near now, its caboose nearly within touching distance. Arthur spurred his horse nearer to it, turning East with the tracks, hot on Eli’s heels, Rane’s hair flying back from her temples ahead of him.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” she cried, her voice nearly lost beneath the thunder of flying hooves and gyrating wheels.

“We’re gonna have to jump!” John shouted, glancing back at her briefly. “Onto the flatbed!”

Rane eyed the moving train with distaste, frowning. “Fuck.”

“Can you slow it down, girl?” Dutch bellowed from up ahead, riding along the opposite side of the train.

Rane scoffed, looking distressed. “I could, sure, but the whole thing is liable to go tits up if I do, I don’t know how these fucking things _work_! If it was a Mustang GT, maybe -!”

“Alright, well then forget about it, we’ll do it the old-fashioned way,” Dutch shouted, waving a hand. “Go on, you boys, get on up there!”

“Jump! JUMP!” Arthur flung himself from his mount, landing awkwardly onto the car. Rane paced herself alongside him, spurring Eli for all he was worth, and then with an awkward motion leapt from his saddle, grasping at the car’s holsters. She caught them in both hands, her legs hanging off the side, too near the tracks for comfort, and hauled herself up with an effort, her mouth turning down. Arthur and John yanked at her arms.

“That was not fun,” she remarked, a little winded.

“Wasn’t ‘spose to be. Get low, girl.” Arthur shoved her head down beneath a crate unceremoniously, both guns drawn. “Here’s where we need ya.”

There were men emerging from the car up ahead as the train trundled along beneath their boots. They were clad in military garb, armed with big irons and aiming for their assailants, and John and Arthur were sliding into cover as well. Rane pulled her wand, kneeling behind the crate.

“Who goes there?” one of the men bellowed. His voice cracked, and to Rane he looked no older than twenty. Her heart cramped a little.

“Jesus Christ, they’re young,” she murmured, dismayed.

“I told ya, didn’t I?” Arthur growled, pulling the hammer back on one of his guns. “This ain’t top brass, Rane, these are just gophers.”

“Don’t shoot to kill, huh?”

“Like hell I _won’t_!” Arthur replied, looking at her with real surprise. “You think they’re tryin’ to wing us rather than blow our brains out the backs of our heads? Shit, Rane, you got a little bit more sense than that -!”

“Just let me,” she said, meeting his eyes. "I'm a chick, they're not gonna fire on me right away."

John scoffed. “There’s damn thirty of ‘em up ahead, you can’t handle ‘em alone, Rane -!”

“Yeah, put a bandage on that bleedin’ heart of yours,” Arthur snapped, looking thoroughly put out. “I ain’t tryin’ to lose anybody to a bunch of raw young boys -!”

Rane rose from cover, her wand held before her, and Arthur made as if to rise too, looking alarmed. John yanked him back down by the scruff of his shirt.

“Hang on a tick, Arthur, just _hang_ on -!”

“God _dammit_ this woman, if she don’t get killed I’m gonna kill her myself -!”

“Just _hang - on,_ I said!” John said roughly, snatching at his shirt as he tried to get up again. Arthur cast him a dire look, stumbling back down, his eyes hard and glittering beneath his brows. “Hang on and let her, she ain’t _stupid_!”

“Well, she sure is doin’ a pretty damn good _impression_ of it -!”

“Miss, you ain’t cleared to be aboard this vessel!” one of the Army boys was crying, gun pointed at Rane, his eyes wide and a trifle wild beneath his hat. “What’s your business here, huh?”

"Take it easy," said Rane, lifting both hands. "I'm not armed, I didn't even mean to board. Howabout you boys aim those things somewhere else?"

They did, for a wonder, and as soon as the barrels were pointed at the ground Rane twirled her wand. There was a brilliant flash of red light, and the soldiers were thrown away from the train en masse, arms pinwheeling, crying out in surprise.

“Shit, well that worked a treat,” John remarked, standing.

Rane shouldered the door at the end of the car open. “Where’s the payload?”

“Probably at the front.” Arthur aimed and fired at another soldier near the front of the next car, dropping him. “Keep movin’ up.”

"Hey, don't -" Rane gave Arthur an unhappy, mulish look. "Can you not? They're just kids, for crying out loud -"

"Rane, I love you to pieces, but this ain't a social call, these boys are gonna try to kill us, and they'll do it if we don't kill them first." He looked at her sternly. "That's the way it is, darlin'. I asked you once before if you could drop a man and not hesitate in the moment, and you told me you could. You gotta harden your heart up a little bit, alright?"

Rane sighed, nodding, looking subdued. "Okay."

“What the hell are y’all doin’?” Javier shouted from behind them, staggering to his feet from where he’d leapt to the train. “Bunch of them boys just jumped ship!”

“Rane cursed ‘em!” John shouted back.

“Ha!” Javier looked delighted as he drew his gun and strode ahead. “ _Bueno_!”

“How ya doin’ there, Arthur?” John bellowed. He was taking cover behind another stack of crates. The retaliatory gunfire from the boys up ahead was coming hard and fast now, whistling past all of their ears.

“I’m okay!” Arthur aimed another pair of shots, this time one from each hand, and another pair of soldiers dropped in the doorway, their lean forms collapsing bonelessly against one another. “Look out, there’s one on the roof -!”

“SECTUMSEMPRA!” Rane shouted, and a long, ragged gash appeared on the chest of the man standing on the top of the next car, spewing bright red blood. He grasped at his shirt, crying out, his gun clattering from his hand, and fell headlong off the train, rolling into the forest alongside.

“Jesus Christ!” Bill cried, looking shocked.

“He was gonna shoot ya dead and you’re clutchin’ your pearls?” Arthur said loudly, glaring at him, but he felt a trifle nauseous himself. Sometimes this magic stuff was a little bit too much to handle. “Keep movin’ up, all of ya!”

“Next carriage, next _carriage_!” Rane was saying roughly, striding forward. Arthur watched her a moment, a little taken aback by her, not for the first time. She was strange in a lot of ways, but seeing her in the throes of battle was another animal entirely; she was like a carnivore, stalking her prey, not afraid of her quarry in the least but only circumspect, anticipating their next move and acting accordingly, like a bobcat batting at an injured rabbit. Her face was mild, almost disinterested, performing these tasks with practiced ease, emotionless and graceful and aloof. He was reminded again of the afternoon on Guarma when she had rescued Javier, knocking men down like they were bowling pins. He had wondered then if her heartbeat ever climbed above a gentle trot while she went about it, and he wondered again now. He doubted it did.

“Keep pushin’ forwards!” John was shouting.

“Rane, get up onto the roof, there’s a couple-few in that next car ‘bout to shoot,” Arthur ordered, his guns still aimed ahead, breathing quickly and pressed against the wall. “Can ya see ‘em?”

Rane put her wand between her teeth and in a swift motion grasped the ridge of the roof and hauled herself up onto the roof, struggling to her feet from her belly. Arthur and John watched her as she stood there, the wind whipping her shirt around her lean torso, looking ahead.

“Stay there a sec,” she said, and aimed her wand. “STUPEFY MAXIMA!”

There was a brilliant flash of red light, and then she glanced back down at them, her long hair catching on her lips as it flew from her temples.

“They’re down. Go, go.”

Arthur and John broke cover, rushing forward. They didn’t get far; there was a brilliant, ear-splitting explosion, and the car ahead burst into flames, the black smoke trailing into the sky. Rane staggered back, shocked.

"Let me put it out," Rane began, aiming her wand, but Arthur snatched her wrist, shaking his head.

“Don’t bother, it’s shot.” He jerked his head. “We gotta bail.”

“We can’t get through the smoke!” John was shouting, running towards them, grasping at the crates as he went. “Dutch -!”

“Jump!” Dutch was crying. He was riding his horse hell-bent at the side of the car, his eyes on Arthur. “Jump on, you damned old fool!”

Arthur did, arms flailing, and landed squarely on the Count, grasping at Dutch’s vest. John had done the same, landing onto Old Boy. The fire was growing rapidly.

“Rane, JUMP! GET ONTO A HORSE!” Arthur roared, looking at her with alarm. She was still standing at the side of the carriage, grasping at the railings, her hair whipping around her face.

Rane put two fingers into her mouth and whistled. Eli came racing to the fore at once, his mane flying behind him, ears pinned back. She jumped, and nearly missed; it would have been bad, had she not snatched the saddle horn, wheeling back, her spare arm pinwheeling.

“We’re gonna hop on next carriage!” Arthur cried from up ahead, glancing back at her. Rane was still snatching at the reins, her eyes wide. “Get ready to scoot!”

Rane spurred Eli on roughly. His hooves flew faster still beneath her, and when they were flush with the next cabin Rane flung herself awkwardly against the flatbed again. This time it was almost not enough; she grasped the edge in both hands, scrabbling, and clambered on with an effort, her breath shearing between her teeth, her brows contracted.

“You got it, girl,” Arthur said, yanking her up by her elbow.

“Damn near,” Rane replied, looking at him. “This is the most romantic date I’ve been on since I had to storm the beach of Normandy.”

“Wait ‘til the honeymoon,” Arthur replied, smirking at her, striding ahead. He was pointing toward the carriage behind them, which was rife with flames now. “Somebody uncouple that carriage before it blows us all up!”

“I’m on it!” John was rushing forward, his face now smeared with the residue of the smoke.

Arthur stared past him as he ran past, toward the rock walls alongside the tracks. There were men on horseback appearing now in the woods, full gallop and armed. He shoved Rane down again.

“Fuck, they’re onto us. Stay low.” He pulled the hammer of his guns back, aiming. “This is about to get messy, girl, you keep that wand handy.”

“They’re comin’ for the money!” John shouted. He was striding back now, the flaming car falling behind them, engulfed in fire. “They don’t know -!”

A gunshot rang out, and John gasped abruptly, his arms pinwheeling. A wound opened in his chest, red and broad, and he fell backwards off the edge of the train car, rolling into the brush and out of sight.

“JOHN!” Arthur bellowed.

“Fuck! FUCK!” Rane stared after him, her face harrowed. “FUCK! JOHN! _JOHN_!”

“RANE, GET DOWN OR YOU’LL BE NEXT!” Arthur shouted.

Rane spun around, her wand drawn. The shooter was on the roof of the next car, a lean-hipped young man with a shotgun aimed at her. She waved it with a flourish, her eyes bright and terribly angry beneath her brows, her mouth turned down into a sneer, all thoughts of mercy for the young soldiers now departed. When she spoke, her voice was rough with rage.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

There was a green flash of light, and the man’s gun tumbled from his hand as his muscles relaxed. He fell off the train, limp and very much dead, his hat flying from his head and wafting off into the forest.

“DUTCH, THEY GOT JOHN!” Rane shouted, glaring to her right, her hair flying around her face, staggering against the motion of the train. “THEY GOT HIM!”

“I’ll get John! You get that money!” Dutch cried, veering off to one side, his hands tight on the reins. “Get that _money,_ now!”

“Fuck!” Rane said, low and rough, as he rode off toward the woods. “Fuck! FUCK!”

“Quit.” Arthur grasped her wrist briefly. “He might could be okay. Just focus. Dutch has got him.”

“DUTCH IS BATSHIT CRAZY!” Rane shouted, her eyes wild. “HE GOT SHOT!”

“FOCUS ON THE JOB!” Arthur retorted, just as loud. “FOCUS! _FOCUS_!”

Rane jerked her hand away from him, and Arthur was dismayed to see the brightness of her eyes. He could feel tears threatening, himself. He couldn’t think on it now, that much was certain.

“Come on, honey, we gotta get this done and dusted, we’ll figure out the rest later.” He turned and started for the front of the train without another word, feeling absurdly vulnerable. “Come on, now!”

“I’ll go stop the train!” Cleet bellowed from a little ways ahead, bent behind a crate.

Arthur scoffed, looking furious. “Stop the tr - whatever you do, do NOT STOP THE TRAIN!” he yelled. “You secure up ahead but keep us movin’! You hear me?”

Cleet eyed him uncertainly a moment, then nodded.

“I asked if you heard me, boy!”

“Yeah, I heard ya!”

“Arthur!” This was Sadie, a ways ahead now, looking wild-eyed. “You and Rane get the hell up here! I think I know where it’s all loaded up, I found it!”

Arthur slapped Rane’s shoulder lightly, starting forward. She was walking quickly ahead at his side, her eyes bright and her brow furrowed.

“Those sons of bitches,” she whispered as they made their way through the next cabin. “Those sons of bitches, those sons of _bitches_ -!”

“Quit,” said Arthur, very low, his voice hoarse. “Quit it. Just get ready to blow this bastard up.”

“They shot John.”

“Yeah, and they’re gonna shoot the rest of us if we don’t pull our shit together,” Arthur agreed. He hated the hurt, raucous quality of his voice. “Focus, baby, just do what we gotta do. We'll see about John after it's over with.”

“There.” Sadie was gesturing to the next carriage, her hair flying about her face in the backdraft. It was a big one, sealed with an iron door that looked thicker than a treetrunk. “Right in there. The next one up is the engine. Gotta be here, otherwise it was a bad tip.”

"Y'all take a couple steps back." Rane drew her wand, waving it elaborately. “REDUCTO!”

The door exploded in a spray of steel and fire. Sadie and Arthur ducked, shielding their faces with their forearms. Rane moved forward between them, her face grim and set, peering inside.

“There’s a shitload, what are we supposed to do with it all?”

“Move.” Arthur shoved past her, grasping at the sides of the blown door, staring around. “Oh, shit. We got somethin’. WE GOT SOMETHIN’!”

“What is it?” Sadie cried.

Arthur grasped at the nearest bag of cash and tossed it out. “Catch!”

She did, staggering against the weight, looking astounded. “Holy Christ!”

“Yeah, there’s more, too.” Arthur snatched at another bag, tossing it out, his breath shearing out between his lips. “Grab it, you lot, quick like -”

“Arthur, the bridge is coming up kinda quick,” Rane said, eyes ahead, her mouth thin. The empty gorge was in sight now, drawing nearer every second. “We’ve got a couple seconds, maybe -!”

“Morgan!” Cleet had appeared at Arthur's elbow, his face slick with sweat. “The driver’s dead! This thing ain’t stoppin’, we gotta get off!”

“Shit!” Rane snapped, catching a bag full of money, the muscles in her arms bulging. “Arthur -!”

“I’m comin’.” Arthur grabbed one last sack, panting, and strode out of the carriage. “Jump, you damn fools, jump now!”

They did. Rane landed on her side badly, gasping, the sack rolling off to one side. Arthur came to a rest next to her, cursing, grasping his chest. The train rolled on heedlessly, steam pouring out of its wheels, loud and caustic. They got to their feet, watching its progress, breathing hard. The train rolled on, reaching the hole Rane had made a few hours earlier, then slid off into oblivion, wheels still spinning. It fell into the gorge, crashing into the rock below, the noise fantastically loud, the smell of burning metal strong and unpleasant in the humid air.

“We’re alive,” Bill remarked, sounding astonished at the fact.

“Yeah, just about.” Arthur was still staring after the train, looking a little shocked.

“You’re bleeding,” said Rane, nodding at Sadie’s arm. She looked down at her wrist, startled.

“It ain’t nothin’,” said Sadie.

“Lemme see.” Rane snatched her hand, moving her wand over the scrape. Her eyes were overbright, her mouth downturned. “Hold still.”

“Rane, John’s probably fine.”

“I don’t want to be the one to tell his kid if he isn't, is all,” Rane muttered, her expression dire and angry. She removed her wand, patting Sadie’s arm. “Good to go.”

There were hoofbeats thudding behind them. Arthur turned, still holstering his guns. Dutch and Micah were riding toward them.

“Where’s John?” he said loudly, caring not at all for the way his heart was thumping beneath his shirt. “Where’s John, Dutch?”

Dutch shook his head, looking almost comically mournful. “I tried. I tried.”

“He didn’t make it,” Micah supplied, looking thoroughly unconcerned. “That patrol killed him. We had to run.”

“THEY WINGED HIM!” Rane shouted, shocked, her voice strident and furious. Micah’s horse faltered a little at it, stamping, its ears flattening. “THEY JUST WINGED HIM!”

“Well, what you want me to do, bring him back from the dead?” Micah snapped, looking at her with a little trepidation.

Rane glared at him a moment longer, then turned away, throwing both hands into the air, her eyes on the dirt. Arthur met Dutch’s eyes.

“You sure?” he said, low.

Dutch nodded. “Yeah, I am, son.”

Arthur placed a hand over his eyes, grasping the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”

“Come on.” Dutch looked around at all of them, brisk and unafflicted. “Before another patrol turns up.”

Arthur looked up at him, his mouth turned down, watching him. He had never felt such resentment for the man until this moment. John Marston was dead, and Dutch was treating it like . . . like an _inconvenience_. A man he’d known since boyhood. Like it was nothing. Nothing at all.

“Where’s the body?” Rane asked, glaring at Dutch. She was really shooting daggers now, her eyes sharp and cold. “Huh?”

“You’re a little hard of hearing, ain’t ya, girl?”

“Sure, if it helps you sleep at night.” Rane stepped forward, her eye on his, hard. “Where’s his body? Say.”

Dutch reeled his horse around without answering, looking away from her. “YA!”

He rode off at this, tailed by Micah. Rane watched him go, her eyes narrowed.


	48. Season of the Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The post-train operation takes a turn, and Dutch reveals his true colors

_There goes the jigsaw man_

_Stuffing you in the pockets of his pants_

_We thought we'd make it safe and clear_

_But we never really stood a chance_

_We took the money_

_We took it over everything we held true_

_Ran around the world_

_Yeah little rabbit, run_

_I don't wanna be here_

_Running through the rain_

_I could do it over man_

_There ain't a thing that I would not change_

_All my friends are gone_

_Left me freezing on a beach_

_And every time I crawl up here_

_Somebody tries to take a piece of me._

**\- UNKLE**

____________________________

“Hey. You okay?”

Arthur started a little, staring around at Rane as if he had never seen anything quite like her. He was standing beside the train tracks, the sack of cash dropped at his feet unceremoniously. He had one hand on his lean hip; the other was stroking his chin, his shoulders hunched.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he muttered gruffly.

“You don’t look okay.” Rane came to his side, placing a hand on his back, rubbing gently. “Hey. Look at me.”

He did, a little reluctantly. His eyes were hurt.

“I just hate it.” Arthur shook his head, his expression naked. In that moment his bombast and pretext was washed neatly away, and he was just a man grieving someone he loved. His face was boylike in its earnest unhappiness. “Can’t fuckin' believe he’s gone.”

“I don’t think you should jump right to that,” said Rane, very low.

"What do you mean? You tryin' to say Dutch was lyin' about John?"

"Yeah, that's _exactly_ what I'm trying to say. You look surprised," she added, looking at him with grim amusement. "Does the idea of Dutch being dishonest shock you? Come on, now."

"I'd be surprised he was lyin' about somethin' like _this_ , sure!" Arthur massaged the bridge of his nose. "What makes you say that?"

“It’s just a feeling. But my feelings are usually right,” she added as he started to look cynical. “Just hold off for a second before you start reading him his last rites, that’s all I’m saying.”

Arthur eyed her, pursing his lips. “Well, either way, we oughta get back to camp.”

"I know you think I'm full of shit, but just -"Rane leaned up, kissing Arthur’s cheek gently, placing her palm against his neck. She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Hang tight for a little bit longer. Just hang tight.”

Arthur sighed, nodding, then bent and hoisted the sack of cash onto his shoulder. “Alright. C’mon.”

  
  


THEY rode on toward Beaver Hollow in relative silence, Rane casting worried glances over at Arthur every now and again. She felt helpless; he’d known John for what amounted to his whole life, and she felt sure that the grief she felt in her own heart paled in comparison to his. The rain was falling steadily now, pattering gently onto the earth beneath. Arthur’s gray shirt clung to him, darkened by the moisture, and Rane couldn’t help but notice how thin he was. The ribs in his torso stood out sharply, and his cheekbones were pronounced, the hollows beneath his eyes shadowed and deep. Had he lost weight in just the past week? Rane thought maybe he had. And now that she thought of it, she hadn’t seen him put much more into his mouth besides cigarettes lately, either.

“When did you eat something last?” she asked him.

"Why?”

"It's for my dissertation."

Arthur shrugged. His expression was exaggeratedly dispassionate, but Rane was sharp, and she saw the watchful vigilance in his eyes at this query.

"Ain't hungry."

“That’s not really what I asked you.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, trying to look glib. “Rane, this ain’t exactly the time for you to be playin’ doctor. I’m fine. Okay?”

Rane eyed him a moment, then turned her eyes back to the trail. “Okay.” She cleared her throat. “What happens now? When we get all this back to camp?”

“Well,” said Arthur pensively, clearly kindling to the change of topic, “to be honest I haven’t gotten that far yet. Right now I mostly just wanna talk to Abigail and Jack, and we can figure it out from there."

Rane’s heart sank. She had forgotten all about Abigail and Jack during all this mess.

“Do you think Dutch will tell her?” she asked. “Before we get back?”

“Nah, I don’t think Dutch will want any part of it. _Micah_ , now.” Arthur passed a hand over his face, frowning. “He’d get a kick out of breakin’ their hearts, and I don’t want to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction.”

“He won’t get the chance,” she murmured. She hesitated, then took the plunge. “Arthur, listen, I want to get out of here soon. Like tomorrow. Or tonight.”

Arthur nodded, chewing his lower lip.

“I can’t promise ya nothin’, Rane. I hope you understand why that is.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to promise anything. But I think we’re getting down to the wire here. Dutch, the way he acted after John -” Rane shook her head. “He’s touring the solar system. I don’t even recognize him from a week ago. I can’t imagine how _you_ must feel, knowing him for decades and seeing him like this.”

“Yeah, it ain’t fun, I’ll say that much,” Arthur conceded, still frowning.

“That stuff that happened to me back there -” Rane gestured behind her. “- it’s not a good sign, Arthur, I think it means that whatever is going to happen is close. I know it sounds crazy,” she added, rubbing her forehead restlessly, “but this happened before and it was a day, just one _day_ before everything went sideways. I wish now I’d have seen it for what it was, but -”

"How'd it happen the last time?" Arthur asked her frankly. "You havin' fits and such?"

Rane shook her head. "No, just . . . that feeling. And I had a dream."

"A dream? About what?"

"Just . . . " Rane shook her head. "That something was going to happen, that I might die -"

"You ain't gonna die!" Arthur's voice had gained an abrupt, hoarse ferocity. Rane started a little at the sound of it. "Quit talkin' that way, Rane! Why would you say somethin' like that?"

"Okay, I hear what you're saying, but the first time this happened, I _did_ die," said Rane steadily. "It feels the same way it did then. You understand? And now I'm afraid to pretend it isn't happening. Twice I ignored it before, Arthur, and both those times, people that I loved got killed. I can't let myself make that mistake again, not with you in the mix."

Arthur was looking at her from his mount, frowning, his brows low over his eyes. He looked dismayed.

"I don't know _what's_ going to happen. _Umbarae_ is just a feeling, Arthur, it could be somebody dead just as soon as it could be a broken wine glass. I don't know, I'm just . . ." She trailed off, sighing. "I'm sorry. I don't know where I'm going with this, it just seemed important to mention. Take it with a grain of salt."

"I ain't gonna take it with nothin'. I don't like to think of you getting hurt." Arthur's voice was harsh. "Not in the least."

"You think I like to think about _you_ getting hurt?" Rane cast him a bald look. "Arthur, the thought of losing you, it terrifies me. _Terrifies_ me. Whether it's me or you that goes. I don't think I could take another hit like that, I really don't."

Arthur nodded, chewing his lip, watching her. After a moment he turned his head away from her, facing the trail again.

“You still can’t know for sure,” he said, “and just for the record, darlin’, I don’t usually include those sorts of things into my calculus, so if it’s just ideas, there ain’t no reason to take it into consideration.”

“Arthur, just because it isn’t _quantifiable_ -!”

“It ain’t, and we mostly deal with material things here on this plane of fuckin’ existence,” said Arthur, a little bluntly. “I don’t mean no disrespect for wherever it is you come from, but I got a lotta friends on the line here and one maybe dead in an early grave not yet thirty, and I ain’t too keen to ride this thing off the rails because you got a bad feeling. You understand.”

Rane watched his profile a long moment, then nodded, her brows knit. “Yeah. I understand.”

Arthur jerked his head. “Look.”

Rane did, squinting. She could see a group of horses up ahead, cantering. The lead one - albino, coat shining in the gentle rain - was unmistakable as The Count.

“You keep your temper,” Arthur said quietly, not looking at her. “Not ‘cause I disagree with whatever you wanna say to him but because I ain’t got the strength or the wherewithal to quarrel with you on it. I feel weak as hell today.”

Rane glanced at him, her brow furrowed, feeling a sweeping sensation of dread at these words. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do. That’s what happens when you’re sick with this shit, and I ain’t doin’ so hot, in case you ain’t noticed.” Arthur looked at her from beneath his hat. His blue eyes were bloodshot, but he was smiling a little bit. The grim humor in his gaze was a spear through her heart. “I’m just askin’ you to go gentle. I don’t have a whole lot of fight in me this very moment.”

Rane watched him a long moment, her jaw flexing as she ground her teeth.

"You think it's funny or something?" she asked him at last, a little coldly.

"No."

"Well, you're laughing. Could have fooled me."

Arthur's smile faded. He reached out and touched her shoulder gently.

“I shouldn’t have said that, it wasn’t very kind.”

Rane swallowed hard, straightening. “It's fine, I’m sorry. This is kind of tough to handle at this very moment, if we’re being honest.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to get used to it real quick.” Arthur raised his voice. “Hey! Why are y’all stopped?”

Tilly was rushing down the hillside before where Dutch and the rest had come to a stop. Rane pulled Eli to a stop, watching this warily. She was astride a morgan, and Jack Marston was sat in front of her, his tiny hands grasping at the saddlehorn, his dark hair in disarray. Tilly yanked the horse to a halt before them, her eyes large and wild.

“They took Abigail!” she cried, staring at Dutch desperately. “They came and I got Jack, but they took Abigail!”

“Who did?” Dutch roared.

“Agent Milton and his men!” Tilly replied. Jack was clutching at the saddle, staring around him, his eyes wide and frightened. “Took her to Van Horn to be tried for murder!”

"Murder?" said Arthur sharply. " _Murder_ , you said?"

Tilly nodded, her face ashed.

Dutch shook his head. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said loudly.

Arthur looked at him sharply. "Sorry to _hear_ it? _What_ the hell you say?"

“We gotta let her go.” Micah was watching Dutch, his eyes shrewd. "We gotta let her go and -"

"Whoa, hang on, now wait a second, what about _John_?" Arthur interrupted, looking utterly blown over. "Dutch, what about _John_? You just gonna let this go after _that_?"

“John’s . . . well . . . “ Dutch looked at Jack. Rane kicked Eli forward, clearing her throat loudly.

“Jack, you don’t worry about your mom or your dad,” she said loudly, overriding Dutch before he could go on, reining Eli between Tilly and Dutch. “You just stick with Tilly for now, okay? You got it, darling?”

“Yes,” said Jack, meeting her eyes.

“We’re gonna practice with my sword later, my guy. You remember my sword, don't ya?” Rane patted her scabbard. "You gotta be on the up and up for that, so you just listen to what she says and be good, right?"

“Yeah.” Jack looked a little heartened. “Really? Can we?"

"Really really. You put your hands over your ears now, Jack, can you do that for me?”

“How come?”

“Because I gotta talk to the grown-ups about something.” Rane smiled at him winsomely. “Go on, sweetheart, don't worry. Tilly, keep those hands there, will you?"

Tilly nodded as Jack obliged, clapping both palms over his ears. Rane immediately turned her furious gaze on Dutch.

“ _That_ was how you were gonna tell him about his dad? Half-assed and still on your horse, like you're ordering a fucking tuna melt? _Huh_?”

Dutch recoiled. “Girl, you can't hardly tell me what I can and can't -!”

“No, stay your bullshit right now,” Rane snapped, pulling Eli closer to the Count, her eyes hard. “You’re all over the place and that’s fine, you go to hell in your own good time, but this is a little _kid_ and if you wanna drop this type of shit on him then you're going about it like a real son of a fucking _bitch_ -!”

" _Excuse_ me?"

"You a little hard of hearing?"

"Rane, goddammit, what did I _just say_?" Arthur said wearily, rubbing at his face. Rane ignored him.

Dutch turned away from her. "Tilly, take your hand away from that boy's ears so I can tell him what -"

"Tilly, don't you move," said Rane sharply, aiming a finger at her, gaze imperious. "Don't you fucking move."

Dutch glared at Rane, then turned his gaze back to Tilly. "I don't gotta remind you how I kept your ass off the streets, my girl, nor how this here woman only came into our midst a week prior, do I, Miss Jackson?"

"Don't you let that kid hear this," Rane said, overriding him, her voice now strident enough to echo in the woods surrounding them. "Don't you let him get hurt because of some man's pride, Tilly."

Tilly glanced between Dutch and Rane, her expression harried, but her hands remained over Jack's ears, and Arthur was heartened to see it, for one. Dutch had trained his cold gaze on Rane now, his smile almost a sneer.

"If you think you can tell me what to do, then you've grown too big for your britches, honey."

"I don't care about what you do, Dutch, you arrogant asshole, I care about that little kid over there. He doesn't need any more scars from the likes of you -"

"That ain’t UP TO YOU!”

“I’M _MAKING_ IT UP TO ME!” Rane hissed, meeting his eyes fearlessly, her voice low and coarse, trying not to shout. “HE’S A _CHILD_!”

"YOU DON'T _EVER_ RAISE YOUR VOICE AT ME!" said Dutch, not bothering to keep his tone down. His words rung in the woods around him, and he glared at Rane through the light rain, his dark eyes burning. Tilly flinched, drawing closer to Jack. "YOU MUST HAVE FORGOTTEN WHO YOU ARE, GIRL!"

"I _KNOW_ WHO I AM!" Rane bellowed, matching his tone. Her face was bright red, her brows drawn over her eyes, leaning over Eli's neck and glaring at him. "I DON'T WALK BY YOUR LAW, DUTCH! I'M NOT ONE OF YOUR PISS-PANTS LACKEYS, I'M HAPPY TO CALL YOU OUT ON YOUR BULLSHIT!" She leaned forward a little more, aiming a finger at him, the cords in her neck standing out, her eyes fierce and furious. "What happened to him was YOUR _FAULT_ , Dutch! _YOUR_ FAULT!"

"YOU GONNA GET ALL SOFT BECAUSE YOU FUCKED HIM?"

Rane fell silent, glaring at him, breathing hard. When she spoke again, her voice was low and dangerous.

"I did, yeah. Do I need to stitch a letter on my chest so your holy-rolling ass feels a little bit more comfortable with it?" Rane shook her head, looking supremely disdainful. "Listen to yourself. You raised him up from a kid and you're turning him loose like he was a run-over stray dog. If you walked into a church right now I bet you'd burst into flames, you backsliding, cowardly son of a -"

"You don't know what the hell you're _talking_ about -!"

"I know that I've been here for _two weeks_ and I'm a damn sight better friend to him than _you_ are, Dutch Van der Linde!"

"OH, GET OFF MY ASS!" Dutch roared, waving a hand impatiently, his face reddening. "I SHOULDA NEVER GIVEN YOU SHELTER, YOU'RE NOTHIN' BUT A FUCKIN' DRIFTER!"

"IF I HAD KNOWN YOU WERE THE SORT OF GUY TO LET YOUR OWN BOYS DIE IN THE DIRT WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT, I'D HAVE TOLD ARTHUR TO LEAVE ME WITH THE FUCKING PINKERTONS -!"

"RANE!" Arthur bellowed, and shoved at her shoulder roughly. "Shut the hell up, goddammit! That ain't helpin' nobody!"

A ringing silence fell behind this statement. Dutch scoffed, shaking his head and laughing.

"Abigail is alive and she needs help," Rane murmured, low. She gestured at Jack, whose hands were still clapped over his ears, Tilly's palms over his. "She's got a little kid who needs her. Since you let his dad down, maybe you can help _her_ , at least, and save a little bit of whatever's left of your ratchet-ass soul, Dutch."

“She’s just a girl,” said Micah loudly. “We got a bunch of money, Dutch, and she’s just a girl -!”

“You’re just gonna let the boy become an _orphan_ , Dutch?” Arthur bellowed, gesturing.

“It - it ain’t _like_ that -!”

“What _is_ it like?”

“I wanna _live_ , cowpoke!” Micah cried, glaring at Arthur. “I still got the _choice_! Dutch, it’s just a _girl_ -!”

“IT’S JACK’S MOTHER!” Rane screamed, dismounting Eli in a swift motion and glaring up at Dutch, leaning forward, very loud. Everyone around her recoiled a little. “HIS _MOTHER_!”

“It’s just a girl,” said Micah, very low, looking at Dutch, ignoring Rane. “Just a girl. No different than this one here.”

Arthur dismounted and tripped toward Rane hastily as she went for her wand. He snatched her wrist in his hand and pressed it back down, forceful, looking at her forbiddingly.

"Nope, nope, put that away, easy goes it, there," he muttered sharply. She was breathing hard through her nose, and without looking at him she relinquished her grasp, still glaring at Dutch.

“It’s just a girl,” Micah said again.

“Dutch.” Arthur released Rane, going to Dutch’s side, palms out, trying for his own part. "Hey -"

“He’s right.” Dutch was nodding. “It pains me to say it, but he is right.”

“ _Dutch_!” Arthur cried.

“Come on, boys.” Dutch ignored him, spurring on his horse. He was followed by his fellows, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. Arthur watched him go, his face falling.

“ASSHOLES!” Rane screamed after them, her voice breaking, her eyes overbright. “ _YOU ASSHOLES_!”

She bent, picked up a handful of damp gravel from the road and hucked it after them. The rocks clattered ineffectively against the ground as they rode away.

“Save your breath, they ain’t listenin’',” said Sadie. She’d stayed behind, still mounted, glaring after Dutch.

Rane kicked at the trail, cursing, low. She fell to her knees, her fists clenched, and after a moment ran her fingers roughly through her hair, moaning low in her throat. Arthur knelt next to her with an effort, grunting. He placed a palm on her shoulder.

"Get up, baby, come on now."

"Fucking _Dutch_ ," Rane murmured, her voice acidic.

Arthur spat roughly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, rubbing her back gently.

“Well I guess that’s it, then,” he muttered bitterly. “All them goddamned years.”

"Is my pa okay?" Jack asked, his voice low and timid.

"We're gonna make sure that he is, kiddo," said Rane, looking at him as she got to her feet. "You just stick close to Tilly, and everything's gonna be good as gold, okay? Me and your uncle Arthur are gonna figure it all out."

"Arthur, what are we meant to _do_?" said Tilly, looking frightened.

Arthur fixed his gaze on Tilly and Jack, looking uneasy. He got to his feet, making for his horse.

“Take this.” He hauled the sack of cash from the back of his mount onto the back of theirs, the horse stamping at this added weight. “You take Jack and you wait in Copperhead Landing for Abigail and Missus Adler and Rane here. Okay?”

“Thank you, Arthur.” Tilly snatched at his wrist as he pulled away, meeting his eyes. “Thank you. Truly.”

Arthur grasped her hand in both his own.

“You’re a good girl.” Arthur gave her a look that was rife with unspoken emotion. “You have a good life, now, you hear?”

“Alright, Arthur.” Tilly was weeping now, her dark eyes bright. She struggled, her mouth working. “Ill . . . . I’ll miss -”

“Me too, sweetheart.” Arthur gave her a smile. “Me too. Jack, c’mere.”

Arthur took Jack’s hands in his own, meeting the boy’s eyes. Jack met his gaze, uneasy.

“You be brave, son,” said Arthur gently, squeezing his hands. “Me and Rane there, we're gonna go get your mama. We're gonna get her back to you. Okay?”

“Okay, uncle Arthur,” said Jack softly. Arthur nodded, his mouth thin, then turned away.

“Missus Adler!” said Arthur loudly, striding away. Rane thought his brusque evasion of the situation rather telling.

"What, Arthur?"

"We're gonna go do somethin' about this. Why don't you come along?"

"Gladly." Sadie's response was unhesitating, and Rane felt a rush of gratitude for it. "Lead the way."

"I can do that if I can't do nothin' else," said Arthur, mounting his horse with a grunt. "You ladies stick close."

Rane was on her feet and on Eli's back in an instant. "You got it, sweetheart."


	49. Rhodes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadie, Rane and Arthur go to Rhodes to rescue Abigail

_You say I have turned,_

_Like the enemies you've earned,_

_But I can remember all the good things you are,_

_And so I ask you please,_

_Can I help you find the peace and the star?_

_Oh, my friend,_

_What time is this,_

_To trade the handshake for the fist?_

\- **A Perfect Circle**

___________

“Those goddamned bastards.”

Arthur had been repeating this under his breath for a little while now as he, Rane and Sadie rode toward Rhodes. Sadie looked over at him at last.

“You sure are doin’ a lotta mutterin’ over there,” she remarked.

“Ah, hell.” Arthur passed a hand over his face. “Now he don’t care if he orphans his friend’s child so long as he gets rich? All his goddamned talk all them years. Seems like it was always a lie. Or he went crazy.” He sighed, shaking his head. “What a mess.”

“He thinks he’s God,” Sadie said grimly. “Or I guess he wants to believe he’s God, or somethin’. He seems just as damn crazy to everybody else.”

“Not to Micah,” Rane remarked, low.

“Well, Micah don’t count,” Sadie concurred, shrugging. “Forget Micah.” She paused, then added, “ _fuck_ Micah, matter of fact. Slippery son of a bitch.”

Arthur shrugged, pulling his hat off for a moment and running his fingers through his hair. In the low sunlight he was extraordinarily handsome, bone-thin or not. “Hell. I’m sorry both you ladies got dragged into this. Into . . . well, _us_.”

“Listen, if you hadn’t shown up at my house that night I’d be dead,” said Sadie, meeting his eyes from horseback at his side, her gaze hard and unforgiving. “Even _this_ bullshit beats dead, Arthur.”

“Yeah, I’m with her,” Rane agreed. “It would have been fuckdoll and then target practice for me if you hadn’t happened along. Not to be gross.”

“Any fool woulda done the same, that don’t mean nothin’.”

“Oh, bullshit.” Rane watched Arthur closely. “Don’t sell yourself short, babydoll. I may have come into this blind but I stuck around with eyes wide open.”

“Same.” Sadie looked over at Arthur, unsmiling. “You like to act like you don’t care about nothin’, Arthur, but I think some of us know better than all that.”

“Well.” Arthur passed a hand over his face, sighing. “Either way, we gotta get Abigail out for Jack. And I know John woulda wanted it too. I wanted to try and get them two outta this. Seems I left it too late.”

“Well. It ain’t too late yet.” Sadie’s eyes were on the trail before them, her brows a little knitted beneath the rim of her hat. “Shit, I can’t hardly believe they got John. Can’t imagine how Jackie must be feelin’.”

"Jack doesn't know," said Rane sharply, glowering. "I wouldn't have raised hell like that otherwise. And he won't until we know for sure, if I have anything to say about it."

“This one over here don’t think he’s really dead,” said Arthur, jerking his head at Rane. Sadie glanced at her, surprised.

“You _don’t_? Hell, you saw him get shot, didn’t ya?”

Rane shrugged. “Sure, I saw him get shot. I saw him get shot in that Pinkerton camp, too, and he made it through that. Shit, _I_ got shot at Shady Belle. I’m still sitting here on Eli talking to you, aren’t I?”

Sadie scoffed. “Rane, that ain’t the same thing and you know it. You got a way to mend it, John don’t.”

“Yeah, well all I’m saying is I haven’t seen his body,” said Rane steadily. Eli trotted amiably beneath her, his long black tail flicking idly, twitching his ears against the light rain. “Dutch didn’t come riding back home with John's body slung over his horse, did he? That doesn’t strike either of you as kinda weird?”

“He wouldn’t have done that with Kieran or Sean, either,” Arthur put in.

“Yeah, but this is _John Marston_ ,” said Rane, looking at him. “Bill told me John’s like his golden boy. I feel like Dutch would have brought him back and given him a proper burial, at least, regardless of how fucked in the head he is.”

“We don’t know _what_ he’d do anymore, and he don’t either, like as not,” said Sadie reproachfully. “Me, now, I wouldn’t be surprised none if he just left John where he landed because he couldn’t be fucked to bother with it.”

Arthur sucked his teeth, looking unhappy. “I guess I just don’t like to think Dutch would do somethin’ like that.”

“Yeah, since Dutch is as pure as the driven snow, after all,” said Rane dryly. “I’m not trying to get into the nuances of that crazy bastard’s thought processes, I’m just saying . . . I’m not going to give him up for dead until I know for sure one way or another.”

“So what, you wanna go see if he’s there? Alongside the tracks?” Sadie looked skeptical.

“No, I don’t.” Rane shrugged. “I don’t think Dutch found him in the first place. I bet he didn’t even look. Dude had dollar signs in his eyes from the start.”

Arthur grunted, clearly not enjoying this turn of conversation. “Let’s just get Abigail. We can fucker the rest out later.”

  
  


THE three of them arrived in Rhodes some half hour later. The rain was falling steadily now, not hard but gentle and cool, shored up by the brisk wind. The town lay before them in its little nestled spot next to the water. It looked very impotent indeed to Rane, with its low-slung buildings and the stink of exhaust and ozone and capitalism hanging in the humid air. The faint sound of calliope music could be heard from someplace, perhaps the saloon.

“Okay, here we are,” said Sadie, drawing back on her reins. “Let’s ditch the horses and come up with a plan.”

“ _Glenn’bo_ ,” Rane murmured, and slapped Eli’s hindquarters briskly. Eli snorted, his ears pinning, and then turning cantered off, his long mane blowing back in the breeze. Rane turned back to Arthur and Sadie, her nose wrinkled. “This place smells the way a hangover feels.”

Arthur didn't reply to this. He was looking toward the town as well, his bloodshot eyes squinted. He was coughing, a strange, strained sound, his fist curled in front of his mouth and his shoulders hunched. It was a _new_ cough, Rane thought, not the rough, turbid one she was used to hearing but a barking, cavernous sound, one that seemed to resonate in his chest like a hollow, taut drum. It seemed . . . _worse_ , somehow, though she couldn’t put her finger on just why.

“How ya feelin’, Arthur?” Sadie asked him, clearly picking up on this as well.

“I’m okay,” Arthur replied, gruff. He was rubbing his chest, not looking at her. Sadie was eyeing him appraisingly.

“I think you should cover me and I’ll go in there and get ‘er,” she said at length.

Arthur fixed her with a contemptuous glare. Sadie scoffed, looking a little uncomfortable.

“I mean because you’re the better _shot_!”

“That _ain’t_ what you mean.” Arthur was scowling at her, his voice low and fierce. “I can still _fight_!”

“I _know_ it, Arthur! I _know_ you can! That ain’t why I’m askin’!”

“Oh, don’t bullshit me, Missus Adler -”

“Look, just - just do it my way, honey. It’s for the best. Get up someplace high, like -” She floundered, gesturing. “Like that lighthouse or somethin’. Cover me.”

“No, I’ll take care of it.”

Sadie and Arthur both turned. Rane was standing a little ways away, folding her sleeves up at the elbows and rolling her neck on her shoulders. Arthur made a derisive sound in the back of his throat.

“Oh, no you ain’t, not this time. These are _Pinkertons_ , they’re _government_ boys, we ain’t gonna let you run off all alone to -”

“Oh, you guys are coming, too,” said Rane, glancing at him wryly. “But I’m going first and both of y’all are the flank guard. That means you stay the hell back,” she added pointedly, looking at Sadie in particular. “We cool with that, friends?”

“Funny how your brilliant plans always end up as you doin’ all the work, ain’t it?” Arthur asked, looking irritable. “Why is that, exactly?”

“I guess because I’m just good at doing all the work,” said Rane, smiling at him. “And because I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt. That answer your question?”

“You know who _else_ is good at doin’ all the work?” Arthur spread his arms.

“Yeah, well, you can believe in whatever Gods you want, but when it comes to crossing the road, you still look both ways.” Rane pulled her sword from its sheath, twirling it around her wrist once, the blade clanging gently. “This is me looking both ways. Humor me.”

“Oh, good Christ. Always with the theatrics.” Arthur sighed, pulling both pistols from their holsters, his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders in the light rain. “Sadie, help me watch her back. She’s gonna hold fast on this one, I can tell.”

“Yeah, I figured as much. You gonna be okay up front? Really?” Sadie was pulling her own guns, watching Rane warily as she spun the cylinders. “I can hop up there by your side.”

“No, but I'll say this: these guys don’t know what a wand is and whether or not they should be afraid of it,” said Rane, lifting her own and waggling it hither and yon in the humid air. “Everything will be smooth sailing until we get to the building, and then you guys will have to take over. Whoever is holding onto Abigail will respond better to a couple of barrels aimed at his head than he will to a girl with a stick. Cool?”

“Convoluted,” Arthur remarked, looking unimpressed. “I love you.”

“So you tell me.”

“Sometimes seems like it’s starting to make me dumb.”

“You don’t think you were just already dumb, maybe?”

Arthur reached out and swept her toward him, planting a kiss on her mouth, his hand on her lean waist, his pistol still dangling from his thumb.

“Don’t be rude.” He gestured with one gun. “You wanna show off, go on and show off, see if I care.”

“Are you saying you aren’t impressed?” Rane asked him with faux dismay.

“Nuh-uh.”

Rane reached up and pecked the corner of his mouth once more, grinning. “Jealousy is unbecoming of you, sweetheart. Not a good look.”

“Oh, shut up.” Arthur pushed her away, rolling his eyes. "Go on, get."

“Christ, that girl is nuts,” Sadie remarked, watching Rane stride away, her sword drawn. “She takes this sort of shit like firesale, don’t she?”

“Sure does seem to,” Arthur muttered, watching the tick of her hips as she left them. “I ain’t never been more frightened for a woman walkin’ into danger, I’ll tell ya that. Or _less_ frightened, at that. I don’t even know what to make of it.”

“Well.” Sadie scoffed, looking grimly amused. “Let’s cover her, one way or another. Not like she needs it, God only knows.”

  
  


IT was a bit of a wash from the start, predictably enough. Arthur and Sadie followed behind Rane, taking cover, but Rane strode out into the open, quite undaunted, her sword held lax at one side and her wand at the other, looking around her with all the vague interest of a peruser in a marketplace. The Pinkertons on standby near the water’s edge shouted their warnings at her, aimed their weapons when she ignored them, and fired at last when she continued forward, and each of them fell by the deflection of their own bullets off her blade. The way she directed her return-fire was subtle, expert, and Sadie found herself a little hypnotized by it despite herself.

“ _Damn_!” she murmured to Arthur, a little faint. He was at her side, crouched at the midsection, his breath coming rough in his throat as he watched her. “The way she sends it back at ‘em! Christ, how in the hell does she _do_ that?”

“Mmm. Dunno.” Arthur sounded distracted. His interest was clearly with Rane herself, not her fancy swordplay, though Sadie thought his worry for her was likely unnecessary. She was moving through these men like a hot knife through butter, striding forward and dropping them with practiced ease, the ring of the gunshots and their ricochets loud and echoing. “She’s getting close to the building, keep an eye on her.”

Rane cast the last man down, this time aiming her wand at him. There was a brilliant flash of red and he fell, limp, into the water beside the dock, floating face-up and quite unconscious. Rane beckoned with one hand without looking up, aiming her sword and her wand at the door of the building before her. Arthur and Sadie rushed forward, guns still drawn. Neither of them had fired a single round.

“I’m gonna open the door and you’re gonna handle whatever’s inside,” whispered Rane, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Arthur pulled back the hammers of both guns and nodded to her. “Go on.”

Rane paused before the door, a little winded, her long hair damp against her cheeks. The weathered sign next to the wooden door was hectically cheerful in the gloom: **SILAS CRAWFORD TINNED _and_ DRY GOODS _and many other_ USEFUL ARTIFACTS**. There were boot heels moving inside, audible only just over the rainfall.

“Here goes nothing,” she muttered, and kicked open the door, staggering out of the way, boots stuttering on the damp wood.

Arthur stood on the dock, both guns leveled before him, his hat low over his forehead, his blue eyes glinting like flint beneath his brows, mouth turned down into a merciless sneer. He stepped forward as the door swung in with a shrill creak, guiding himself into the gloom within, legs staggered, hips lean and slung low. There were two men inside, one to the right, one to the left. The one on the right had a revolver placed against Abigail’s head; the lady herself was tied to a chair, gagged, her hair in disarray and her eyes wild. Rane, standing a little ways behind Arthur, was as shocked by his speed as usual; he aimed, fired and dropped the both of them in the space of two seconds, the pair of reports so near to one another they seemed simultaneous.

Both men fell, headshot, blood dashing from the leftmost one in a spray and splattering the ceiling. Sadie laughed a little wildly.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur.”

“Wyatt Earp over here,” Rane remarked, grinning.

“Who the hell is Wyatt Earp?” asked Arthur derisively, holstering his guns and starting for Abigail.

Rane scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Typical. Never mind. Is she okay?”

Arthur strode forward, drawing his knife from his belt. Abigail was struggling against her binds, looking at him with wide eyes. “Yeah, seems to be. You stay back, lemme -”

There was the click of a hammer being drawn. Arthur froze. So did Sadie and Rane, both just inside the doorway. A man was moving out of the shadows, a pistol aimed at Arthur’s heart, his eyes pale and grim beneath the rim of his hat.

"Fuck," Rane murmured. Her sword was already sheathed. "Didn't see that one."

“That’s Milton,” said Sadie at Rane’s side, very low.

“Calm down, Mister Morgan,” Milton said gently, quite calm. “Real nice and slow, now, you turn around for me.”

Arthur remained where he was for a moment, bent over Abigail, then slowly straightened. He was coughing again, that same barking, dry sound from before, and he turned, facing his assailant, hands in the air.

“That’s quite a cough,” Milton said gently, smirking.

“Sure.” Arthur offered him a grim smile. “Tuberculosis. I’ll be dead soon. And you with me, Mister Milton.”

“You’ll be dead, sure, but I’m gonna be just fine,” Milton replied, eyeing Arthur. He sighed, as if exasperated. “We offered you a deal, Mister Morgan. You should have taken it.”

Arthur laughed, low and sardonic. The sound devolved into another series of coughs almost at once. “I guess I’m a fool, Mister Milton.”

“Not all you boys have quite so many scruples. Old Micah Bell -”

“Micah?” Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “You mean Micah -?”

“Molly O’Shea - well, we sweated her a couple of times, never talked a word. Had to let her go.” Milton was watching Arthur, still smirking, clearly enjoying this. “Micah Bell, now, we picked him up when you boys came back from the Caribbean, and he’s been a good boy ever since.”

“Son of a bitch,” Rane whispered, glaring at Milton from beneath her brows. "I fucking knew it."

“I ain’t got much more use for you, I fear,” Milton said, waving his gun. “I guess -”

There was a flash of brilliant green light. Milton stilled, his expression falling lax, and then crumpled into a heap onto the floor, his eyes staring at the ceiling sightlessly. Rane put her wand into her jeans pocket, frowning.

“Cutting it a little bit close,” she remarked reproachfully, looking at Arthur.

“Thought you liked playful banter.” Arthur was leaning over Abigail, slicing at her binds with his knife. A moment later she was on her feet, yanking the gag from her mouth.

“Horrible man,” she murmured, glaring down at Milton. "I sure am glad to see you three, I ain't ashamed to say."

Once Abigail was freed, Arthur had staggered back, sliding down the far wall, still grasping his knife loosely in one hand, breathing hard. Rane went to him and knelt at his side, grasping his arm.

“Hey, hey. Come on, kiddo, you aren’t done yet -”

Arthur coughed roughly, turning from her. She saw the spray of red in his palm before he was able to wipe it away on his jeans. He met her eyes, seeing the perception there.

“I’m alright, so don’t ask me,” he muttered.

“Arthur,” Rane said, very soft.

Arthur met her eyes. She was crouched before him, her long legs folded beneath her, her damp hair hanging in her face, watching him with a desperate concern that made her seem older and more solemn. He attempted a light laugh, shaking his head, feeling wildly out of sorts.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that and help me up, Rane.”

“You -”

“Help me up.” Arthur held a hand out, not looking at her. The red of his blood was still on his lips, though he didn’t know it. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like this right now, not in front of everybody.”

Rane looked at him a moment longer, then straightened and taking his hand in hers yanked him to his feet. She reached up and kissed him briefly when he had gained his legs, tasting the salty tang of his blood on her own tongue.

“Go easy,” she muttered, very soft, meeting his eyes.

“I will, but only because you asked me to, and you’re awful pretty.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I.” Arthur raised his voice, pushing past her. “Abigail, you okay?”

“Fine. Pissed off, but fine.” Abigail was straightening her dress. “What's goin' on? Where is everybody? Where's John?”

Rane and Sadie exchanged a look. Sadie cleared her throat.

“We’re gonna make for Jack,” said Sadie steadily. “We got horses. We’re gonna get you outta here.”

Rane nodded, but her eyes were still on Arthur. He was wiping at his mouth restlessly with his sleeve, and his hand had taken on a slight tremble. Rane followed him out of the building with a frown, watching the tentative tick of his hips as he strode toward the front of town, taking care to step around the Pinkertons littering the street.


	50. A Good Little Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane and Arthur bid farewell to Abigail Roberts as things begin to unravel

_Your heart of hearts, your dream of dreams, your ravishing brunette_

_She's left you and she's now become somebody else's pet_

_Lay down that gun, don't try, my friend, to reach the great beyond_

_You'll have more fun by reaching for a redhead or a blonde_

_Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think_

_Enjoy yourself, while you're still in the pink_

_The years go by, as quickly as a wink_

_Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, it's later than you think_

  * Guy Lombardo



_______________________________

  
  


“Where’s Jack? What happened?”

Rane glanced over at Abigail. She was riding Arthur’s horse, her dark hair flying back from her temples. Arthur had taken up a spot behind Sadie, grasping her waist, his head lolling a little. The four of them were riding away from Rhodes toward camp at a brisk canter, the rain falling around them gently and steadily. At this point, the only one who wasn’t soaked through was Abigail, who’d spent the last several hours roped to a chair beneath a roof. 

“Jack is with Tilly. He’s safe. Back at camp.”

Rane gave Abigail what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Truthfully, her thoughts were far more preoccupied with Arthur Morgan at this very moment than they were with Abigail, Jack and John. She hadn’t liked the way he’d collapsed to the floor in Rhodes, and she’d liked even less the damp crimson of his blood glistening on his lips as he told her he was fine. He was silent behind Sadie on horseback, his eyes on the trail, hat drawn low and a little slumped over, his grip a trifle lax on Sadie’s waist and his breath ragged and fast. The difference between Arthur Morgan from an hour and a half ago and Arthur Morgan now was startlingly dramatic. When they’d delivered Abigail to Jack, Rane intended to strongarm him away someplace secluded so he could rest for a little while, and the rest of it be damned. If she had to bind him and drag him off by the hair, so be it.

“What happened back there, Abigail?” Sadie asked, looking over her shoulder.

“Them Pinkertons showed up and snatched me up while I was near camp,” said Abigail, shaking her head. “It was so quick, I couldn’t really do nothin’ to stop it.”

“They didn’t hurt ya none?” Arthur asked, glancing at her.

Abigail shook her head. “Nah. Shoved me around a little bit, is all. They wanted Dutch. Or you, Arthur. I dunno which one they wanted worse.”

“Well, Milton was wasting his time, then, Dutch don’t care about jack shit no more except for his own hide,” said Arthur. He reached past Sadie, yanking at the reins grasped in her hands, pulling back. “Ladies, ladies . . . hold on a sec. Wait up.”

“Arthur, what the hell are you _doin’_ -?” Sadie was struggling for control of the reins again, taken utterly by surprise. Arthur was persistent, though, and the horse was coming to a prancing stop, braying. “Let _go_ -!”

Abigail and Rane pulled their horses to a halt, Eli snorting and tossing his head. They had arrived at a crossroads, the rain still driving gently down over them. Arthur slid off Sadie’s horse, his boots splashing in the damp puddled earth beneath him, making for Abigail, his gait a little unsteady.

“Arthur, there’s no _time_!” said Sadie sharply.

“There’s time.”

His breath was fast and rough, and he reached both trembling hands up toward Abigail, gesturing gently, clearly meaning to help her off his horse. Abigail looked down at him, her eyes shrewd and dark, not moving, her fists white-knuckled tight against the reins.

“Where’s John?” she asked, her voice very low. “What happened to John?”

Arthur watched her, still panting, his mouth working. Rane watched him struggle with her brows knitted, frowning. He didn’t know how to do this, any more than she did, and yet the responsibility had fallen squarely onto his shoulders, as it so frequently seemed to do. Rane got down off Eli as well, standing alongside him and watching this, silent, her hand on Eli’s withers.

“I . . . I don’t -” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “I think . . .”

He trailed off, breathing hard, his bloodshot eyes on Abigail’s. Rane saw the slow realization dawning on her face, gradual, guarded. Arthur gestured again, his hands still outstretched.

“C’mon, Abigail, lemme help ya down. C’mere.”

She looked at him warily a moment longer, then finally acquiesced, allowing Arthur to take her waist and help her off the saddle. She landed lightly before him, watching his face acutely.

“Arthur.” Her voice was harsh and demanding. “John. _Where’s_ _John_?”

“He . . . “ Arthur was watching her, shifting from foot to foot like a kid scolded by his teacher. Rane pitied him to the core of her in that moment. There could be no preparation for something like this. “He -”

“What, Arthur? _What_?”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head, then he pulled his hat off and held it against his chest. “He got killed or he got captured -”

Abigail was recoiling before this sentence was even finished, as if she’d known all along. She grasped at her throat, shaking her head. “No. _No_.”

“I’m really sorry, Abigail. I am.” Arthur’s voice was low and hoarse, his face so pained that he was almost unrecognizable. Sadie strode forward and grasped Abigail’s shoulders, pulling her closer. “I was . . . I was on the train and I didn’t see it -”

“No. _No_.” Abigail was weeping freely now, all her bombast and hauteur departed, her face crumpling. Rane felt a rush of empathy for her. “No, he _can’t_ be -”

“Listen, we got Jack. He’s safe.” Arthur replaced his hat and grasped her hand tightly in his own. He gestured to Sadie. “Missus Adler will take you to him.”

Abigail was bent at the waist, crying, her shoulders shaking. Rane had never seen her at such a disadvantage, so broken and emotional, and it was strangely humbling. This woman loved John Marston with every fiber of her being, as least as much as Rane loved Arthur, and the realization of this truth was subduing, making her bitterly regret every flippant, dismissive word she’d ever said to her about John. Dutch’s exploits were harming more people than just Sean and Molly, now.

“Abigail, listen to me.” Arthur took her shoulders, shaking her gently. And when she continued to look at the dirt, weeping: “Hey. _Look_ at me and _listen_ to me. I want you to know this.”

Abigail did, reluctantly, her damp eyes sliding up to meet his, her mouth contorted as she struggled not to sob. Arthur brushed her hair from her temple gently.

“He _loved_ you,” he said quietly. “He loved you and Jack, he did.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Abigail gestured at Rane angrily, her eyes damp and red.

Rane shook her head, her expression meek and deferential. “It wasn’t me he wanted. It never was.”

Abigail watched her a moment longer, her breath hitching, eyes wet and distraught and a little frantic. Rane remained where she was, keeping her gaze steady with some effort, quashing her ego for once and readying herself for an invective if it was required. She could see Abigail wanting to lash out at her, to use her as a whipping post for her bereavement, and Rane was fully prepared to bear the brunt of this if it would dull the sharpest edges of her grief. Arthur saw this too and grasped Abigail's shoulder, shaking his head.

“Hey, quit worryin’ about Rane and listen to me,” he said quietly. “I need ya to hear what I’m sayin’ right now, I ain’t got strength enough to tell it twice. It’s difficult enough as it is, you ain't the only one that cared for him.”

After a moment Abigail dropped her gaze from Rane, still weeping quietly. Arthur squeezed her hands in his.

“Abigail, he wasn’t perfect, I know it. He was a real son of a bitch sometimes, pig-headed and dumb as rusted iron and foolhardy and whatever else ya want, but he _loved_ the pair of ya, he did.”

“ _She_ -!”

“No, 'she' nothin', Rane don’t have no love for him and he didn’t have none for her, whatever happened between ‘em didn’t mean nothin’ and I think you know it good and well.” Arthur glanced at Rane. “Sorry to take liberties, ma’am.”

Rane shook her head, brushing this off, watching this exchange with her arms wrapped around her shoulders.

“John wasn’t never anybody’s but yours. Don’t you spoil him, thinkin’ that way, don’t you dare. You knew him better than all that.”

Abigail nodded, her eyes still streaming, shaking her head. “Oh, Arthur. I just -”

Arthur tripped forward and hugged her to him. She grasped at him with panicky tightness, her breath hitching, burying her face against his shirt. He allowed this to go on for a moment, then pressed her back, gesturing to the horse behind her, his eyes hardening.

“Alright, now, that's enough of that. Go on, get outta here. Missus Adler here's gonna escort ya to Jack.”

“What are _you_ gonna do, pray tell?" Sadie asked, looking at him warily as she climbed onto her horse.

“I gotta go have a little chat,” said Arthur, shaking his head. “Before I get much sicker.”

" _Arthur_." Sadie's voice was scathing. "What are you _doin_ ', honey?"

"What I have to," said Arthur gruffly, his tone brooking no argument.

Sadie sighed as she readjusted herself in the saddle, clearly recognizing summary defeat, and glanced over at Rane. “What about you, then? You goin' with Arthur?”

Rane was still hugging her shoulders next to Eli, watching this exchange with silent dismay, her dark hair plastered to her neck in the light rain. Arthur looked over at her too, his brows low beneath the rim of his hat.

"That's up to her."

Rane nodded, letting her eyes fall shut. “I'm coming with you, Arthur. We made a deal.”

"You go with them and I won't think twice on it, I'll find you again after -"

"No." Rane shook her head, looking up at him. "We made a deal."

Arthur nodded, flexing his jaw and watching her, his blue eyes flicking over her features pensively. "Okay."

“You two can’t take on all them bastards alone,” said Sadie roughly, glaring at Arthur. “Lemme give Abigail my horse and the three of us can -!”

“No.” Rane was shaking her head already. “We can take them, same way we took Rhodes.”

“Same way we took Rhodes? You mean by letting _you_ take Rhodes _for_ us?” Sadie shook her head. “Rane, you’re good and all, but you’re getting too goddamned cocky and it’s gonna get you into trouble one of these days -”

Rane scoffed, looking away. “Look, I’m pretty confident I can -”

“Yeah that’s the _problem_ , you’re confident! You’re gettin’ too big for your _britches_ , girl!” Sadie was glaring at Rane, her eyes hard and flashing. “We all know you’re good at layin’ fellers low, sure, but you gotta know where to draw the _line_ sometimes! Hell, you been gutshot once and stabbed damn near to death already, pickin' fights you ought not pick -!”

“This has nothing to do with -”

“I'm tellin' ya, you’re takin’ on more than you can handle with them boys back at camp and it’s gonna rare up and bite you right in the ass, if you ain’t careful.”

“I AM careful!” Rane said, a little more stridently than she had intended. “I KNOW what I’m doing, Sadie!”

“Maybe so, but you don’t know _who_ you’re dealin’ WITH!” Sadie retorted persistently. "You been around what, a couple weeks? They ain't what you think they are -!"

“I think they're a bunch of unlettered cowboys with guns on their hips.” Rane's voice was derisive. “A couple God complexes and some hair triggers in chaps and boots? I think I’ve seen worse than all that, Sadie, with more lethal weapons than a couple of rusty revolvers and a piss-poor temper -!”

“Oh, girl, don’t you be _stupid_ right now! Don’t you dare be stupid and get somebody else I care for killed dead, because that kinda thinkin’ is why John ain’t here with us right now!”

Rane fell silent, watching Sadie and chewing her lip. Sadie met her angry gaze, unflinching. Abigail and Arthur were watching Rane, too, silent, neither daring to interrupt.

"I didn't get John killed," said Rane, very quietly.

"I didn't _say_ you did, Rane -!"

"John would have died at that _Pinkerton_ camp if it wasn't for me -!"

"John wouldn't even have BEEN at that Pinkerton camp if it weren't for you!"

"John OFFERED to COME -!"

“ _You - ain’t - God_ ,” Sadie said at last, enunciating each word. “And if you think you are then you ain’t no better than Dutch Van Der Linde, girl. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

Rane said nothing. She was looking at the ground, her brows furrowed. Arthur cleared his throat.

“You’re right about Rane,” said Arthur, nodding and waving a hand. “You’re still goin’ with Abigail, though, Sadie. She needs you more than us.”

Sadie glared at him a moment longer, looking pained, then climbed back onto her horse. Abigail was still standing on the dirt trail, her hands clasped at her throat, weeping.

“Oh, _Arthur_ -!”

“No, don’t you ‘oh Arthur’ me right now, neither of ya,” said Arthur, taking Abigail by the waist as she wept, looking up at him with frank desolation. “You c’mere and get on this horse and that’s the end of it.”

He lifted her up without further fanfare, grunting, setting her onto the saddle behind Sadie. She continued to look down at him, her blue eyes streaming, her mouth thin and downturned.

“ _Arthur_ -!”

“No, you mind me, now!” Arthur said sharply, fixing his bloodshot eyes on hers. She wilted a little beneath his gaze, some of the grief melting away from her face. “I need to know you lot got outta this! Otherwise, it was all for nothin’!”

Sadie and Abigail watched him, silent. Arthur took one of their hands each, squeezing gently.

“You’re good women. Good people. The best.” He smiled a little then, grim and ill but still sincere, heartbreaking in its truth. “You go get that boy. There’ll be a time for grieving later.”

“If you’re headed back there, Arthur, take this.” Abigail pulled a key from her pocket, handing it over. “There’s a chest in them caves, in the back to the left. Hidden under a wagon.” She leaned forward a little, fixing her damp gaze on his. “ _Dutch’s_ chest.”

Arthur took the key, looking a little flabbergasted, and as he stuffed it in his pocket he grasped her hand in his, grinning a little bit.

“Abigail Roberts.”

“I always was a good thief.”

“That you was.” Arthur squeezed her hand a final time, then released it. “Go on, now. Get outta here.”

He turned without looking at either, walking away.


	51. A Brief Repose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur takes a quick hiatus in the forest with Rane before the storm

_There's a place where you are going_

_You ain't never been before_

_No one left to watch your back now_

_No one standing at your door_

_That's what you thought love was for_

_Baby you're lost_

_Baby you're lost_

_Baby you're a lost cause_

_I'm tired of fighting_

_I'm tired of fighting_

_Fighting for a lost cause_

  * Beck



_________________

Rane and Arthur watched Abigail and Sadie ride away side by side in a silence that was broken only by the gentle patter of the rain in the forest. Rane felt a strange sense of foreboding as the horse’s hindquarters vanished out of sight, long tail rippling.

“Feels like I might never see neither one of ‘em again,” Arthur muttered.

Rane looked over at him sharply. “What do you mean, you feel like you’ll never see them again?”

Arthur shook his head, running a hand over his face. “Just feels that way.”

“You’re _gonna_ see them again, Arthur, it’s not like they’re going to Hong Kong. Copperhead Landing is like ten minutes away. Jesus, what a thing to say, man . . . ”

Arthur didn’t respond. Rane was a little unnerved that he didn’t; there was a slump in his shoulders she hadn’t seen before, as if all the fight had simply gone out of him. He continued to watch the horizon over which Sadie and Abigail had vanished, hands sunk into his pockets, brow knit and hat pulled low over his bloodshot eyes. The man standing next to her bore only a passing resemblance to the fast-talking, quickdraw marauder she’d robbed the Braithwaites with days before.

“Hey, what’s wrong? What’s on your mind?” Rane was watching him closely. “Talk to me. No more bullshit.”

Arthur shook his head slowly, shifting his weight, then glanced down at her.

“I don’t know, honey. I guess I just feel kinda funny about all this all of a sudden.”

“Funny how?”

Arthur shrugged, tipping the rim of his hat a little lower as he did. Rane was not prepared to accept this non-answer after the day they’d had. She took his bicep and shook him gently.

“Say.”

“Will ya sit with me a little while?”

Rane was bewildered. “I thought you wanted to go?”

“I do.”

Rane scoffed, facing him. “Arthur, look at me. You’re going two directions at once. I don’t understand.”

Arthur met her gaze, unsettled and perhaps a touch frightened. Rane took his face in her hands, staring up at him.

“What’s _wrong_?”

“I don’t rightly know.” Arthur shook his head beneath her palms. His eyes were red beneath the brim of his hat, the blue of his iris bright and stark. He sighed roughly, shifting his weight, looking at her frankly. “Can we just sit together for a little while? Please?”

Rane looked at him, taken aback by the gentle plea in his voice, then nodded, her brow knitted. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, sure. I can make a fire, I guess -”

“No, no, never mind that, I just -” Arthur gestured vaguely. His hand shook a little as he did. “I just wanna be with you a little while longer.”

Rane felt a surge of some large, unspoken emotion rise in her stomach at these words - _a little while longer_ , as if their time together was now explicitly finite - but she forced it back down, the way a drunk will force down a surge of vomit. She shook her head, looking at him, her lips pursed.

“Okay. So we’ll chill for a little bit, right? Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, that’s what I want.” Arthur was looking at her, shrewd as ever. “You okay? You got a funny look about you.”

“Better than yesterday, not as good as tomorrow.” She chewed her thumbnail a moment, then added, “kinda nauseous.”

“Why?”

Rane scoffed. “Bad foie gras from Le Bernadin, maybe? I dunno.”

“You gonna be sick?”

Rane snorted, which devolved into a hoarse cough, which devolved into a retch. Arthur laughed without humor.

“Here I thought I was the one gettin’ spooked by shadows like a broody hen.”

Rane wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah, well this isn’t really shadows anymore.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Your definition of ‘fine’ is sort of migratory,” Rane admonished grimly, making for Eli and grasping his bridle. “Come on. I could kind of get behind taking a break from all this, too, now that I think about it.”

They found a spot just off the road, a little clearing where the pines overhead gave some meager cover from the rain. It had abated a little, but by now it was far too late; both of them were soaked through, Arthur’s thin shirt clinging to his shoulders and Rane’s hair stringy and stuck to her cheeks. The sunlight was muted and orange through the cloud cover, the air so dense and humid it felt almost physical, and once the horses were hitched to the tall, scrawny pine trunks that surrounded them, they slid down onto the ground, hip to hip in the pine needles, wordlessly closing the distance between them. For a few moments Rane was silent, her hands clasped in her lap and her boots crossed in front of her, and then Arthur slung an arm around her, drawing her closer still. Rane leaned against his shoulder, relaxing a little, and his free hand threaded through the one in her lap, squeezing gently. His skin was warm against hers.

A long period of silence passed between them. It was strange, intimate, and there seemed to be many things unspoken that passed between them during those long moments. The cicadas cried overhead, and the rain continued to patter onto the canopy gently, steady and comforting. The air was redolent of ozone.

“You’re trying to say goodbye to me,” Rane said at last, her voice very low.

Arthur scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “Quit it.”

“You come out here into the woods with me for some other reason?”

“I came out into the woods with you because I needed a goddamned break.”

“It doesn’t feel like that.”

“What are you, a soothsayer or somethin’ now?” asked Arthur roughly.

“Maybe I am. Wouldn’t you feel silly.”

Arthur scoffed roughly, shaking his head. Rane was watching him, eyebrows raised.

“I just wanted to sit with you.”

“No, that isn’t it. Why are we really here?”

Arthur rolled toward her, placing both hands on the earth next to her thighs, his lips lingering before hers. “Maybe I just wanted ya by yourself, did ya think of that?”

Rane leaned back, frowning at him. “Arthur, come on, is this really the time for -?”

He pressed his mouth against hers before she could protest further, pushing her down against the pine needles on the forest floor, his fingers roving through her hair and up the back of her shirt. His touch on her was a little frantic, the scrape of his nails sharp against her skin as he moved his free fingers over her skin. Careless, almost slipshod, not like his usual impetuous affect at all. She felt him pulling his fly down, and Rane began to move away from him, feeling oddly unnerved by the weird, hasty way he was going about this. Arthur had always approached intimacy between them with affection and ardor and an almost timid genuflection, as if afraid he might break her into pieces. He had never set after her like she was an assignment, a task, and she liked it not at all.

“Arthur, _hang_ on -”

“Hush.”

“Hey, _wait_ , this is -!”

“Rane.” Arthur leaned back, meeting her clear eyes with his bloodshot ones. His brows were low, his mouth downturned. “Don’t say nothin’.”

Rane looked at him a moment, then fell back against the tree again. He leaned forward again without waiting for an answer, his mouth moving over her throat. She lay back against the pine needles, giving him headway, enjoying his touch in spite of herself, and he leaned back down, grasping himself in one hand, his mouth lingering before hers, stroking himself robustly, his other hand dipping into the rim of her jeans. She gasped lightly, as much in pleasure as in discomfiture, squeezing her eyes shut, and he drew her close by the small of her back, his cadence already increasing right out of the gates, not gentle but rapid and hard, the movements of a man trying to reach his zenith quickly, as if the process itself were in danger of being snatched from him. His hips moved fast against his palm, thrust and thrust and thrust, unremitting, his free hand rolling over her beneath her jeans, maddeningly firm, thighs flexing.

“You’re going too fast,” Rane gasped, her voice a little thick as she pressed her face against his shoulder.

“You like it, I can tell.”

“I like it, Arthur, but please, slow down -”

“Hush and look at me.”

Rane shook her head against his chest, her eyes still squeezed shut. Arthur, watching her face closely, touched her cheek. He had never done it this way before and she was bewildered.

“Look at me, Rane.”

Her eyes sprung open reluctantly, and even through the pleasure that was clear in her face he could see the unnatural brightness in her eyes. He placed his forehead against hers, feeling her quick breath against his neck, shaking his head, drawing her chest close to his own.

“Are you cryin’?”

“No.” Her voice was rough with emotion.

“Honey -”

“Hush. Get there, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed roughly. “You sure?”

Rane nodded against him. He did, helpless not to with his increased tempo. His body stiffened, pulling her near, meeting her gaze as he spilled onto the earth. Her eyes met his squarely, bright and clear and present. She was breathing quickly, but not quite quickly enough.

“You didn’t come.”

“It’s fine, I -”

Arthur's touch became a little firmer beneath her jeans. She made a low sound in her throat, one of both pleasure and desperation, and he began to rotate his fingers, watching her face from where he hung over her, his eyes on hers, sharp and perceptive. His free hand went to the back of her neck, drawing her face near, touching her mouth gently with his.

“Come on, honey.” He brushed his mouth over her lips, letting his eyes linger on hers. “Come on.”

“Arthur, no -” She was writhing now, and he increased his cadence, encouraged. He watched her face closely. “Please -”

“Lemme see it.”

“I don’t want to -”

“ _I_ want you to.”

His fingers were moving with maddening intensity now, and in just the right place, and after a few more seconds of squirming beneath his touch, she came quickly as she looked into his eyes, his hand warm and strong against her, gasping roughly. As she relaxed against its afterglow Arthur withdrew his hand from beneath the rim of her jeans, watching her in a strange way, as if he didn’t know what he was seeing.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He pushed the damp hair from her forehead gently, pressing it behind her ear.

“You were upset right then.”

Rane considered doubling down on her front for a moment, then gave up. He'd seen it. The last time he'd seen her cry, he'd kept after her until she told him why, protestation be damned.

"I'm worried about you. About all of this. Feels like things are about to get really . . . I dunno." _Bad_ , she didn't say. The word hung unspoken between them, pregnant. "I'm just worried, Arthur. This whole thing with you, it's still new, and already it feels like I could lose you any minute. You know?"

"So it wasn't just me bein' bad in bed," Arthur said, trying for a smile. The humor fell flat between them, however, and he sighed, leaning back and rubbing his cheek. "I know what ya mean, yeah."

"Yeah, I think you might," Rane agreed, watching him. She knelt between his spread legs and looking up at him from beneath her brows. "You wanna try and tell me what's going on in your head? Best time for thinking, y'know, right after an orgasm."

Arthur met her eyes, his brows contracted, then shook his head. “You talked about that feeling you get, about things goin’ sideways. I think I got it too.”

Rane shifted her weight, curling her legs beneath her. “Explain.”

“It's just like you said. Just . . . feels like somethin’ bad is about to happen.”

“Where?”

Rane didn’t specify, but Arthur touched his midsection, just beneath his breastbone. “Here. Sort of here. Can regular folks feel it too? Am I just bein' crazy?”

Rane watched him for a few moments in silence, frowning, then shook her head, glancing at the ground. She sighed, running a hand over her face, letting it linger before her mouth.

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably."

“What was it you called it?” Arthur asked her.

“ _Umbarae_ ,” said Rane after a moment, still stroking her mouth.

"Whatever it is, I sure don't like it too good."

Rane snorted without amusement. "I don't think it's supposed to be fun."

"Well, then what the hell good is it?" Arthur muttered roughly.

"I mean, adrenaline doesn't feel very nice either, but it sure as fuck comes in handy if you're getting chased by a bear, you know?"

"Well, we ain't gettin' chased by a bear, we're just fumbling around in the goddamn dark. You really think shit's about to go wrong?"

“I don’t know. What I think is that we need to go forward with our eyes open, that’s all.”

Arthur nodded, chewing his lip. “Sorry I fucked you. Just wanted some distraction, I guess.”

“Well, to be fair, you didn’t,” said Rane, and taking his hand kissed his palm. “You’re pardoned, you may proceed to eternal bliss. Go with God.”

“What a relief.”

"I'm sure it is."

"Rane, I did come out here to say goodbye to you, sorta," said Arthur suddenly in a rush, as if excising this statement from his mind against his own will. "That's exactly what I was doin'. I lied to ya and I'm sorry for it."

Rane looked at him sharply, her smile dropping away. "Are you going somewhere?"

Arthur pulled his hat off, holding it in his lap like a worshipper sat in a church pew. He was looking at her with a strange, strained expression, the look of a man confessing some deep, unpleasant truth. Rane, perceptive as always, was already shaking her head, looking away from him, her brow knit, negating the words he was about to speak before they had even left his lips.

"Rane, I'm real sick -"

"No." Rane was shaking her head more firmly now, scoffing. Arthur was persistent, though, raising his voice a little and speaking over her.

"- and I ain't gonna get better from it -"

"I'm not talking about this with you."

"- and I don't wanna leave this unspoken between us if I don't get another chance to tell ya that I -"

" _No,_ Arthur."

"Hey, hey, Rane. _Rane_!" Arthur reached out and took her cheek, forcing her gaze to meet his. She did, reluctantly, and now the brightness was back in her eyes, angry and resentful though they were. She was frowning hard, her lips thin, breathing quickly through her nose. "I want you to know I love you. More than goddamn anything. I just want you to know it if -"

Rane broke away from him, getting to her feet. Arthur sighed, leaning back, massaging his forehead. She met his eyes as she dusted her jeans off, her gaze bright and fierce. When she spoke, her voice was loud and sharp and a little fearful.

"I guess my chickens are roosting for agreeing to come out here with you to begin with, knowing you might start this shit up again, but I'm putting the kibosh on this right now. We're done with this conversation."

Arthur got laboriously to his feet, his boots skidding a little in the pine needles. "Rane, listen, I know you don't wanna hear this, but -"

"You're right, I don't. I won't."

Arthur sighed, looking defeated, getting up. She was looking into his eyes, her expression cool and impatient on the outside and frightened and hurt everywhere else. He tripped forward and pulled her into his arms, squeezing her to his chest and resting his cheek on the crown of her head. She resisted at first, stiffening, but after a moment she relaxed into his touch, and he felt her hands grasping at his shirt tightly.

"I love you, girl. That's it. I'll shut up."

Rane sighed roughly, shaking her head against his shoulder, her eyes filling with tears. "I can't . . . Arthur . . ."

"I'm not gonna be here, Rane, for much longer. You gotta know that." Arthur took her shoulders and shook her gently. "I love you, Rane. I do. More than anything."

Rane scoffed, turning her face from his. Arthur shook his head gently.

"You gotta hear me, girl. You gotta. So at least I can go away knowing that you knew. You know?"

Rane sighed roughly, her eyes filling with tears. Arthur met her gaze, his hands on her shoulders.

"i want you to know," he said softly. He touched the corner of her mouth with a delicate finger, his hand shuddering a little. "I just want you to know, is all."

Rane gasped, her head turning down. It was more of a sob, and Arthur saw it for what it was. He pressed his lips on the top of her head.

"I just wanted to say it, honey. That's all. Just in case."

Rane felt his arms tighten around her, drawing her closer to him. She was full of things unsaid. She knew the weight of him as well as he did.

"I know."

Arthur sighed against the crown of her head, eyes on the road. "You ready?"

Rane sighed, pulling away from him and swiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Always ready. Let's go."


	52. Micah Bell I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's return, amidst chaos

_Leaves falling, red, yellow, brown, all look the same_

_And the love you had found lay outside in the rain_

_Washed clean by the water but nursing its pain_

_The witch’s promise was coming_

_And you're looking elsewhere for your own selfish gain_

_Keep looking, keep looking for somewhere to be_

_Well, you're wasting your time, they're not stupid like he is_

_Meanwhile leaves are still falling, you're too blind to see._

  * Jethro Tull



__________________

Beaver Hollow was in a state of active dismantling when Rane and Arthur rode back into camp. What was more, it was markedly emptier than when they’d been there last, just before the train job. There were perhaps five horses tethered, and the only one to be seen about on a glance was Micah Bell, shouting out orders to the remaining folks, striding around with his hands linked in his belt.

“Where is everyone?” Rane murmured, glancing around.

“Lit out, I bet,” Arthur replied, matching her tone. “Even rats leave a sinkin’ ship.”

“Hurry up, Miss Grimshaw!” Micah was crowing, staring around him imperiously. “Get this camp movin’, now. Quick like. Get them bags packed up.”

“Well, we’re doin’ our best!” Susan cried from the other side of camp. She was evident only by the back of her dress, as she was bent over in a tent, rifling through a pile of clothes left over by someone. Tilly, maybe. “Hold your goddamn horses, Mister Bell.”

“Well, hurry up. We ain’t got long.”

“We just got plenty of time, Micah,” said Arthur loudly, dismounting his horse and striding forward. “Just plenty.”

“Black lung. You’re back. Hooray.” Micah's voice was level and sardonic. “What a surprise. And with your little squaw hot on your heals, at usual. Pretty and dumb, the both of ya. What a match."

"You're gonna charm the pants right off of us if you're not careful," said Rane dryly, sliding off Eli.

Micah linked his hands in his belt, standing in the middle of camp and watching them. “Can we help the happy couple with somethin’ in particular or are you gonna pull your weight for once and get us moved?”

“Where is everyone?” asked Rane.

“Fled,” said Micah, laughing. “Couldn’t handle the heat.”

“Who’s fled?” said Arthur sharply.

“Shit, I dunno. Tilly, the Reverend, Mary Beth, Karen, bunch of others. Who gives a shit? Cowards, the lot of ‘em, I say good riddance.”

Arthur sighed, glancing at Rane. "The Reverend," he muttered. "Guess that puts _that_ idea to bed."

Rane shrugged, shaking her head. It sucked, sure, but tying the knot could wait, especially now.

"That's the last thing we should be worrying about," she said. She turned to Micah. "Where's Dutch?"

Both Rane and Arthur saw the guarded expression that fell over Micah's features at this, like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "Up yonder near the cave. Why?"

“Because I think we all need to have a little chat,” said Arthur roughly, tying his steed to the hitching post.

"Dutch is busy, Black Lung, why don't you go wring your dick out someplace else, let the adults handle things for a -"

"If I was you, I'd shut the hell up," said Rane, leveling a finger at him. "You're already neck deep in shit as it is, my friend."

"The hell you on about, Eyebrows?"

Arthur was striding past Micah, his gait loping and slow. Rane followed him, brushing past Micah, one hand caressing the hilt of her sword, edgy and uneasy. She could feel Micah’s eyes following both of them. Dutch was standing idly at the mouth of his tent, habilimented as ever, hands on his hips, watching the horizon with an expression of distracted satisfaction. Like a man who’d just enjoyed an especially good stack of pancakes or something, Rane thought. Half of his flock had flown the coop, his small empire was crumbling around his ears, yet here he stood, straight-backed, borderline sanguine. The gold on his vest glittered in the low light as the rain continued to patter gently and incessantly down around them.

_He's as crazy as Nero and he's burning his Rome to the ground the same damn way,_ Rane thought, watching his profile. _And unless we wanna go up in flames with him, we have to be so careful. So careful, now._

“I just saw Agent Milton, Dutch,” said Arthur stridently. His gate was unsteady, but his voice wasn’t. “Rane here killed him. Not that you care too much about that.”

Dutch turned at the sound of his voice, hands still lingering on his hips, meeting Arthur's eyes with his own. He didn't look particularly surprised to hear this, despite the fact that Milton had been hounding him for months. Despite the fact that Milton had gunned down Hosea Matthews, his best friend for better than two decades. Rane felt another little tremor of uneasiness pass through her.

“Alright,” said Dutch, nodding. “That’s fine, Arthur. I guess that’s pretty good.”

“Pretty good for somebody, sure,” said Arthur, low and cold. “Seems ol’ Micah here was pretty close with Milton.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about, cowpoke?” said Micah quickly, glaring at Arthur.

Arthur jerked his head. “You talked.”

“That’s a goddamned lie.” Micah glanced at Dutch, who was watching this exchange in silence, his brow furrowed, the set of his shoulders a little tighter. He looked alarmed, and confused, like a lost, demented old man on a street corner. Whatever was wrong with him, it was worse now than it had been even that morning. "Don't you listen to none of that bullshit, Dutch, they don't know what the hell they're talkin' about -"

“Dutch, I heard it from Milton's own mouth, we both did," said Arthur, watching Dutch closely. "Molly never said boo to nobody, that's why they turned her loose. It was never her, it was always god damned _Micah_ -!”

“Dutch, don’t you listen to him. Think of the future, buddy.”

“He told Milton everything,” said Rane, her voice coarse. “ _Everything_ , Dutch. Since Guarma.”

“Yep. Since Guarma.” Arthur was shaking his head, watching Dutch. “It all makes sense now.”

“That’s horseshit, Morgan.”

"It isn't horseshit," said Rane. "Was he here, Dutch? After Arthur and I left the boat, did he stay with you? Because I didn't see him at Lagras. Matter of fact, I didn't see him until we got to Beaver Hollow."

She could tell right away that she'd struck a nerve with this one. Dutch turned his gaze from hers to Micah's, the latter of whom was shaking his head, waving a hand and laughing, as if this were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"Now, that don't mean jack shit and you know it. We had a plan, Dutch, I was just doin' my part! And I was back quick, wasn't I -?"

“How long have you been in Milton's pocket?” Arthur asked Micah, meeting his eyes, his gaze cold and bloodshot. “I wondered on the way back here, because he mighta lied, knowin’ we were about to blow his goddamned head off. Weeks? Months? How many pies _do_ you got your fingers stuck in, boy?”

“You’re crazy as a shithouse mouse, Black Lung, talkin' like that. I guess pluggin' up all your little hussy's holes must be goin' to your head -”

Arthur pulled his revolver and aimed it at Micah, a sneer blooming beneath his hat. Micah drew too, and so did Rane, her sword unsheathed at her side in a flash, her eyes cold beneath her brows. Behind them, Javier and Bill had pulled their guns too, aiming at Arthur.

“Best not point that thing at me, girl,” said Micah, glaring at Rane. “It won’t end well for ya.”

“Well, you’ve got six chances to show me chambered in that thing,” said Rane scornfully, twirling her sword around her wrist once. “Go on, swing for the fence.”

Dutch was standing in silence at the mouth of his tent, looking between Micah and Arthur. His face was oddly flaccid, his eyes still dim and a little confused. Rane was reminded strongly of the evening he had admitted he’d been hit in the head. This bastard hadn’t taken a tap to the skull, he’d been bashed stupid, that was what she thought. He had the look of an invalid about him, almost. The idea of him cast as the referee this way while the whole lot of them were in the thick of a Mexican standoff was a grim one, indeed.

“Dutch, I told ya we shouldn’t have let this mouthy little bitch in with us.”

“Are you gonna keep coming after me or talk about what you told Milton?”

“Dutch,” said Arthur sharply, gun still aimed at Micah. “Think. _Think_!”

“ _You’re_ one to talk about thinkin’, runnin’ around acting a fool over some girl the way you been!” Micah crowed. “You’re as sick in the head as you are everywhere else, Black Lung!”

“For the record, if we get out of this alive I’m gonna shove this blade right up your ass,” Rane muttered, glaring at Micah. He laughed.

"You're gonna be too busy eatin' dirt with ol' swingin' dick over there to stick anything anyplace, honey -!”

“DUTCH!”

All of them turned toward this new voice. John Marston was limping up the hill, clutching his shoulder, blood-stained from chin to knee. Rane gasped, at first not sure that she was really seeing him. Arthur’s gun sagged in his hand a little, his mouth dropping open.

“ _John_?”

Rane sheathed her sword at once, striding towards him.

“Oh my God - _John_ -" She caught him as he began to falter, grasping him by the arm. “Hey, stand up, nice and slow -”

John clutched her shoulder as she slung an arm around him, breathing heavily. He was filthy, he stank of dirt and sweat, and his right chest was a mess of blood, some of it dried, some still shining damply. His face was cheesy pale, his dark hair clinging to his cheeks.

“Christ, we thought you were - here, let me see it -”

John shook his head, still moving toward Dutch, not looking at Rane or Arthur or anyone else. His eyes were hard and betrayed beneath the rim of his hat, his mouth pulled down. When he spoke, his voice was strident, even through clenched teeth, rife with anger and shock.

“YOU LEFT ME!” He shook Rane off, clutching his shoulder, staring at Dutch. “YOU LEFT ME TO DIE!”

Dutch lifted his hands palms-out, his eyes wide. “My boy . . . I didn’t have a choice . . . John, I didn’t -”

“YOU -!” John was glaring at him, the expression on his face almost childlike in its hurt. His breath was coming hard and fast through his nose. “YOU -”

“ - I didn’t have a _choice_ -!”

“ - _LEFT_ ME! YOU _LEFT_ ME, DUTCH -!”

“John, I . . .” Dutch looked at him, the expression of odd, almost senile bewilderment back on his face now, as if he couldn’t understand his own actions. Rane was not softened by it. The fury in her chest was tempered only by the fact that Arthur had a gun pointed at his head. She rounded on him, making toward him again, her eyes flashing, suddenly furious.

“YOU SAID HE WAS DEAD!” she screamed at Dutch, her face reddening. She drew her sword again with a clang, aiming its tip at his heart. It was the first time she had ever pointed a weapon at him. “YOU LOOKED ME IN THE EYE AND SAID HE WAS DEAD, DUTCH!”

"I didn't . . ." Dutch's eyes went from Rane to John to Arthur, shaking his head. "I didn't - I didn't have no goddamn _choice_ -!"

“Did you even _look_ for him?” Rane jerked her sword at Dutch. “Did you even _look_? Or did you lie about that, too, you two-timing son of a -?”

“All of you,” said Arthur stridently, speaking over her, “you pick your side now, because this is over.”

He glanced sidelong at Dutch, shaking his head, his eyes cold and flintlike.

“All them years, Dutch. For this snake?”

“Oh, be quiet, cowpoke,” Micah spat. He and Arthur still had their guns leveled at one another. Dutch stood to one side, Rane and John to the other. Cleet, Bill, Javier and Susan were surrounding this altercation, still and watchful, weapons at the ready. “Be quiet. You live in the _clouds_ -!”

“No, YOU be quiet, Mister Bell!” said Susan loudly, striding forward to Arthur’s side. She held a shotgun in her hands, its business end aimed at Micah, likely the same one that had put a hole through Molly O’Shea’s chest. “And put down your gun!”

Looking back on it later, Rane blamed what happened next on Joe, and on the Pinkertons that were preparing to raid their camp. Susan might have fired at Micah and laid him low, or Dutch might have backed down, which may have still been entirely possible, the way he was looking, uncertain and a little infirm. Or it might have come to blows, and things might have turned out differently. But that wasn’t how it happened. Joe, one of Micah’s transient associates, came skidding up, staring around him, both guns held lax at his sides, and all of them turned, distracted.

“Pinkertons!” he gasped, wild-eyed. “They’re comin’ up fast!”

Micah, who was an opportunist but never a fool, took his chance as soon as it presented itself. He fanned the hammer of his gun with his spare hand, and the report sounded loudly, echoing. Susan cried out, shocked, crumpling, the shotgun falling from her hands at Arthur’s side. Arthur remained where he was, but Rane could see how difficult it was for him not to crumple by her side; he kept his gun trained on Micah, but he didn’t fire, not yet, not with Javier and Bill training their weapons on him. This time it was Dutch who was the fastest. In a hideously fast motion, he drew both his pistols, taking a step forward. In that moment he was not uncertain or rueful, but angry, larger than life, once more the formidable, compelling leader he had always been before things started to slide askew, if only for a brief moment in time.

“NOW!” he bellowed, aiming both his guns, one at Micah and one at Arthur. Susan continued to groan in the dirt, blood pouring from her stomach, clutching at herself and writhing. “WHO AMONGST YOU IS WITH ME, AND WHO IS BETRAYING ME?”

“Dutch -” Susan was scrabbling at the dirt, her fingers already weakening. Rane looked at her, brow furrowed.

“Let me help her,” she said softly, looking at Dutch, her sword still aimed at him. “Please, let me -”

“SHUT - _UP_ , GIRL!” Dutch roared, his eyes meeting hers, flintlike. “YOU MOVE A MUSCLE AND I’M GONNA PUT ONE THROUGH YOU AND YOUR BOYFRIEND BOTH JUST ON PRINCIPLE, NOW YOU HEAR ME?”

Rane’s eyes cut to Susan. It was going on too late anyways; Susan’s motions were slowing, her eyes beginning to glaze. Micah had hit her good, she had thirty seconds, maybe less, and then it would be too late. She wouldn’t be quick enough. A wave of nausea washed over her, the same way it had when Molly had died. Standing over someone who’d been kind to her, unable to help -

“Bill. Javier.” Arthur was still aiming his guns at Dutch, the set of his body still and watchful. “Think. Think for yourselves.”

“He’s lyin’,” said Micah. His voice rose to a taunting pitch, and he grinned beneath his mustache as he spoke. “He’s LYIN’!”

“Rane’s gonna come over there and skewer the whole lot of ya if you ain’t careful,” said John, his voice rough. He had moved behind Arthur now, still clutching his shoulder. Rane was stepping back towards them, her sword still held at the ready. “You really wanna fuck with her?”

“Hush,” said Rane, low. “There’s too many.”

“Get Micah, at least.”

“No. Stop.” Rane stepped back again, hitting Arthur’s shoulder as she did and stumbling a little. She lifted her voice. “Dutch, let us go. We just wanna go. There doesn't have to be any trouble, just let us three -”

“THIS IS AGENT ROSS WITH THE PINKERTON DETECTIVE AGENCY!” a strident voice rang out at the edge of camp. “PUT YOUR GUNS DOWN!”

The first shot rang out, loud as hell, ricocheting off the rock wall behind them. Arthur, moving with almost preternatural speed, lunged forward and threw up the wooden table that sat before Dutch's tent, flinging empty beer bottles to the four points of the compass, putting it on its side, diving behind it and yanking Rane and John down with him.

“Shit,” said John roughly, moving against the back of the table and pulling his pistol, still grasping his shot shoulder. “How many you see, Arthur?”

“Enough,” said Arthur, low. “Ten, maybe twelve, more comin’.”

“Rane? Can you thin ‘em out?”

“Not so it would make a difference, we need to fall back,” said Rane, breathing fast. The Pinkertons were pouring over the hills now, their numbers growing rapidly, firing with impunity.

“You can’t stun them or somethin’ like you did at that camp?”

“Not when they’re spread out like this.” Rane looked at him. “We need to fall back. The caves, is there a way out the back?”

“There’s a way, yeah,” said Arthur hoarsely.

“Then we should go that way.”

“What about Dutch?” said John.

“FUCK Dutch!” said Rane, her voice rising coarsely. “He wanted to leave you to hang, John, FUCK him! Are you kidding me?”

“We can’t just leave him,” said Arthur sharply.

“SURE WE CAN!” Rane roared, loud even over the gunfire. Both John and Arthur recoiled a little. “WHAT ARE YOU GUYS, STOOL PIGEONS? GO ON! GO!”

Arthur and John gleaned at one another, then turned toward the caves.

“You’re comin’,” said Arthur, not quite making it into a question.

“I said we were sticking together and I meant it.” Rane pulled her wand, waving it behind her and murmuring. The bullets flying toward them began to richochet off the invisible shield she'd cast with sounds like breaking glass, striking the dirt and the rock walls and spraying sparks. “Run. Go. Fuck Dutch and fuck Micah.”

Arthur nodded, pulling the hammer back on his gun and glancing at John. “Okay.”


	53. The Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, John and Rane flee the Pinkertons on the cusp of Dutch's betrayal

_Really too late to call, so we wait for_

_Morning to wake you, that's all we got._

_To know me as hardly golden_

_Is to know me all wrong, they were_

_To the outside the dead leaves, they're on the lawn_

_Before they died, had trees to hang their hope_

_At every occasion, I'll be ready for the funeral_

_Every occasion, once more, it's called the funeral_

_Every occasion, know I'm ready for the funeral_

_Every occasion, oh, one-billion-day funeral._

  * Band of Horses



____________________________

The cave beyond Beaver Hollow was cold, dry, dank and utterly unpleasant. It was fragrant with mold, long solitude and stillness, and Rane cared for it not at all. The Sindarin in her wanted for moving airs, fresher places where life and impetus sold wholesale, but Arthur bore it far worse than she. He had begun to cough steadily almost as soon as they’d entered, as he always did in close, dense places. It was gentle, low and regular, coming in cadence with his quick breath - inhale, pause, cough, inhale, pause, cough - and it only took a few minutes before Rane looked back at him, unwilling to put him on the spot and unable to help herself.

“Arthur -”

“Don’t say it.”

“Dude, you sound like a ten year old in the coal mines -”

“I said don’t -” Arthur burst into a little rapidfire, cutting himself off, the sound dry and barking. “I’m fine. Just -”

“I’m worried about you, we can stop -”

“No, we can’t,” said Arthur roughly, casting her a sharp look. “We _can’t_ stop, we got Pinkertons on our asses, the whole damn fleet from the sound of it. You only had a few run-ins with 'em, so trust me on this one, _we can't stop_.”

“What, so you think collapsing and making us carry you the rest of the way is a better -?”

“Rane -” Arthur sighed, rubbing his face roughly. “We don’t have time for this.” He gestured impatiently. “John, back me up here.”

“He’s right, Rane, we gotta go,” John agreed, shaking his head. “They catch up to us, they’re gonna shoot us all dead, we can't stand against 'em."

Rane gestured at him with her wand, causing the light to stagger against the walls a little. "Hi, I'm Rane."

"You said yourself there were too many of 'em for you to handle, now quit smartin' off and do like I say," said Arthur sharply, casting a grim look at her.

Rane sighed, frustrated. "It's bullshit."

“Just quit worryin’ for me and follow John,” said Arthur. His voice was stern, uncompromising, and he was already striding ahead, still coughing. “Both of ya, _move_ , I said.”

They did, Rane reluctantly. The cave wound down further still, the air growing colder and denser as they went. The cave was very dark, and once they had passed the furthest reaches of the torches that glimmered on the rock wall Rane lit her wand, giving them a pale spotlight for a few yards ahead of their footsteps. The sounds of bootheels pursuing them was faint, but it was growing, and it sounded like a score of them. John was casting frequent, worried looks over his shoulder.

“ _Mister Marston! Mister Morgan! Miss Roth! Surrender and we will take you alive!_ ” The voices echoed gently from behind them. “ _Lay down your arms! You will not be harmed!_ ”

“Like hell we won't,” John said roughly, gesturing. “Just keep goin’.”

“John,” Rane panted, still lingering at Arthur’s elbow. “What happened? After the train?”

“What happened? I’ll tell ya what happened, those bastards left me for dead! Old Boy run off to camp, I had to walk the whole goddamn way back bleedin' like a stuck pig -”

“I mean, did anyone come upon you? Did you see them?”

“ _Fuck_ no, I didn’t! Not a goddamn fuckin' _soul_!” John glanced over his shoulder at her derisively, his face shining with sweat. “Nobody even came _lookin’_ for me!”

“Seems that’s what they do now,” said Arthur roughly, shaking his head. “Don’t care about nothin’, don’t try to help nobody - it’s like they ain’t even with us anymore. All them goddamned years and it don’t mean jack _shit_ -!”

“Yeah, well wearing a Starfleet uniform doesn’t mean you're staffing the Enterprise,” said Rane, and immediately shook her head as both Arthur and John looked at her in bewilderment. “Never mind. Micah is a narc, that’s all there is to it, the rest doesn’t matter. He fooled everybody, not just us. Dutch, too. Difference is that Dutch is too fucked in the head to realize.”

“I don’t know about y’all but Micah never fooled me,” said Arthur, low.

“Me neither,” John agreed. “He was a rat fuck from the very start. Dutch was a fool to bring him on. Stay with us, Arthur.”

They had arrived at a long, flat rock wall with an ancient, rickety-looking wooden ladder running up the far right side. Rane’s heart sank a little at the sight of it, aiming her wand upwards. The top was so far up that her wandlight didn't even penetrate it, and Arthur was already panting like a man who had just run an obstacle race, his chest heaving and his face shining with sweat. She grasped his shirt, pulling him closer, the smell of his sweat and adrenaline powerful in the still darkness.

“Are you okay?” she asked him again, looking into his eyes, her hands pressed against his lapels.

He shook his head, panting. She could feel his heart hammering, rapid and frenzied, and his breath was frantic and rough.

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “Mostly wanting you to get your skinny ass up that ladder.”

“Gentlemen first.”

“Honey.” Arthur took her face in his hands abruptly, his grasp powerful and rough, meeting her clear gaze with his bloodshot one. “You’re well and young, now, and I’m old and sick and -”

Rane scoffed loudly, laughing.“Oh, _Christ_ , somebody put me out of my misery, this guy over here -”

“Get your ass up there before I pull out my guns and make ya.”

“I’ll curse you to kingdom come. You know I can.”

“Whatever you wanna tell yourself. Just go.” Arthur jerked his head, breathing hard. “ _Go_ , Rane. Don’t fight me on this, I’m too goddamn tired. If I fall off and take you with me and kill both of us, I’ll show up in hell a pretty fuckin’ pissed off son of a bitch. Humor me, now.”

Rane watched him a moment longer, weighing another few seconds of argument, then turned cantankerously and began to ascend the ladder, her mouth thin. Arthur followed behind her, breathing harshly, the grasp of his fists trembling.

  
  


THE three of them climbed the ladder out of the cave. Rane was relieved beyond reason as they ascended and the air became clearer, like a woman taking her first breath after minutes of being underwater, sucking at the atmosphere thirstily. They staggered out one after the other, Arthur last. He was still panting, the sound of his breath hoarse and uneven, wheezing lustily, the sound whistling and damp. His face was pale, sweat glimmering at his hairline despite the cool air, and he staggered as he reached solid ground, boots stuttering, head lolling on his shoulders. _He shouldn’t be here, he should be in a fucking hospital bed_ , Rane thought, the gentle threat of true panic caressing the edges of her heart. Whatever was wrong, be it tuberculosis or COPD or the goddamned Black Plague, it was picking up its pace now, not sauntering but sprinting, like a wildfire through dry grass.

“You need help?” said John from up ahead, leaning over his knees and breathing hard, looking back at Arthur.

“No, no.” Arthur waved a hand. “Fine.”

Ignoring this, Rane grasped his shoulder and slung an arm around him, feeling the sudden and unwelcome sensation of tears at the back of her throat as she did. He grasped at her shirt, as sharp and desperate as a drowning man, pulling himself closer to her body, and Rane noted the tremulous touch of his hand against her waist, the gentle shudder of his fingers. He spoke gently at her ear as he leaned heavily against her, panting.

“Quit cryin’.”

“I’m not crying. You’ve seen Doctor Zhivago too many times, I think.”

“You sure do get all gushy for somebody talks as much shit as you do, you know it?”

Rane snorted, the sound devolving into a soft sob. Luckily, John didn’t hear it; he was striding forward up ahead, eyes fixed on the forest around them. Arthur reached out and took Rane’s face in his free palm, turning it towards his. Her eyes were bright, her mouth turned down, her dark brows leveled, beautiful and young and all too aware of what was happening, despite her bluster.

“I can’t change what this is, but you and John gettin’ away - now, that I can.”

Rane coughed, the sound devolving into a retch. She was nauseous again. Arthur touched her back.

“I'm gonna be sick.”

“No you ain’t. Buck up for me, now.” He hesitated, his mouth working, then added, “Please. It ain’t easy for me either, Rane, God knows it ain’t. None of it.”

Rane met his gaze, frowning, seeing this truth for what it was. He was having as hard a time with this large, unspoken cataclysm between them as she was. Neither of them knew how to cope with it, and each was doing their best to help the other to do so. It would have been almost slapstick if the situation hadn't been so dire. On top of everything, his best friend had just pointed a gun at his face and the large part of the only family he'd ever known had either dispersed, died or turned against him. She couldn't begin to imagine what he was feeling, or how hellishly strong he must be at the core of him to go on facing it without bending.

“Hey! You two, come on!” John cried from up ahead, looking back at them.

“I want us to get out of this,” Rane whispered, looking up at Arthur, ignoring John. “There’s - there can be more, for you and me, for us outside of this.”

“I know. I want that, too. If I told ya once, I told ya a hundred times.” Arthur shook his head. His mouth was thin, his dirty blond hair falling into his eyes. “But we got things to attend to first. We got hurdles gotta be jumped over, matters to get behind us.”

"What if we can't?"

Arthur’s face fell for the first time at these words, his stern, gentle expression crumpling, and he turned from her a little, passing a hand over his face. He remained that way a moment, massaging the bridge of his nose, and when he turned back to her, Rane realized for the first time that he had surrendered himself to his fate a long time ago. Weeks? Months? It made no difference, here on the cusp of it. His eyes were bright, full of tears, and he took one of her hands in both of his own, lifting it to his mouth and planting a gentle kiss on her knuckles, his hands trembling a little.

"We ain't gonna even give that kinda thinkin' the time of day, Rane, so put it up."

“Come ON!” John cried from up ahead, gesturing.

Rane looked at Arthur another moment, her own eyes bright, then turned from him, setting her shoulders.

“Come on,” she said coldly. “We’re getting out of this. _All_ of us.”

  
  



	54. The Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Arthur and Rane decide how to proceed

_And in your heart_   
_You know it to be true_   
_You know what you got to do_   
_They all depend on you_

_And you already know_   
_Yeah, you already know how this will end_

_There is no escape from the slave catcher's songs_   
_For all of the loved ones gone_   
_Forever's not so long_

_And in your soul_   
_They poked a million holes_   
_But you never let them show_   
_Come on, it's time to go_

_And you already know_   
_Yeah, you already know how this will end_

  * DeVotchka



_______________________

“Where’re Abigail and Jack?”

John, Rane and Arthur were hurrying through the twilit forest, the rain still pattering down around them and striking the boughs over head. The wind had started to pick up, tossing the stale leaves on the forest floor about their boots. The sound of the trees above them was rustling, loud in the silence, cut through with the slowly burgeoning warble of crickets as the dusk began to grow, casting its reddish orange glow through the trees, sending out long shadows even as the rainclouds hung overhead. Rane was striding ahead of both of them, her hair wafting out behind her, damp and stringy, lean hips switching. She was whistling between her fingers, the sound loud and piercing, and shouting something - it sounded like _govano’ven_ \- that neither Arthur nor John could understand.

Arthur grabbed John’s arm, slowing him to a stop, and bent over his knee, panting. “Hang on a tick. Hang on.”

“Okay, Arthur. You alright?”

Arthur waved a hand, shaking his head. “Never mind me. Abigail’s safe, John. So’s Jack.”

John sighed roughly with clear relief, running both hands over his face and tipping his head up toward the skies. Arthur had the impression that he had put this query off for as long as he could, probably anticipating bad news. He sympathized. Lord above knew they’d received enough bad news in the past few days to last them the next decade or so.

“So where are they?”

“They’re with Sadie. At Copperhead Landing.” Arthur shook his head. “Abigail was taken by Milton -”

John started. “ _Milton_? The hell you say, _Milton_? The hell's he want with her?”

“Tryin' to get at Dutch, is all. He took her to Rhodes, but John, Rane laid him low for us. Saved Abigail, got her out and on the run. It’s fine, she’s alright and he’s dead.”

Rane wasn’t listening to either of them - she was still whistling between her fingers, staring around, a little ahead of them - but Arthur and John watched her back for a moment, both introspective.

“You wanna take her and get outta here, don’t ya?” said John at last. “That why we’re runnin’?”

“We’re runnin’ because Pinkertons are gunnin’ for us, John, but if you wanna get down to brass tacks, yeah, that’s what I want. And for you and your family to get lost, too.”

“So what’s stoppin’ ya?” John looked at him frankly, his dark eyes clear and honest in the light rain. “Seems like she don’t need cash to make her way.”

Artur looked surprised. “Because,” he said, “you’re my brother. And I gotta make sure you get outta here okay.”

John looked at Arthur a long moment, chewing his lip, his brow knitted. Rane interrupted them.

“Put shank’s pony away, y’all.”

Eli, Old Boy and Arthur’s palomino were trotting toward them, tossing their heads. Eli approached Rane, his mane clinging to his muscular neck, ears pinned, and she took his nose and kissed it gently.

“What’s our course, captain?” Rane asked, glancing at Arthur.

Arthur was climbing laboriously onto his palomino, not looking at her, his breath shearing through his teeth.

“Follow me,” he said roughly, spurring his horse onward through the rain.

  
  


THEY weren’t on the trail thirty seconds before the sound of hoofbeats began to grow behind them. Both Arthur and John cast uneasy glances over their shoulders.

“It’s not the Pinkertons,” said Rane without looking back. She was a little ways ahead astride Eli. “It’s Dutch and Micah.”

“Like hell,” murmured Arthur. “They wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Wouldn’t come after us instead of lighting out. Not with Pinkertons on their tails.”

“Hey, Caesar,” said Rane, a trifle impatiently, “Brutus and Cassius back there? Not our friends right now.”

“Now see, that there is a fucked up thing to say right now, all things considered,” said John reproachfully, frowning over at her, a little shocked.

“Well, if by saying it out loud I’ve offended your delicate fucking sensibilities, then I apologize.”

“Always glib,” John muttered, rolling his eyes and scowling. “Always so fuckin’ glib.”

“Glib? You mean realistic?”

“I mean what I said, Rane. Sometimes I wonder about you.”

“Me? You guys should be worrying about yourselves, I’m the only one out of the whole mess of you who can look at Dutch pragmatically, the rest of you have still got your rose-fucking-colored glasses on, thinking he’s just misunderstood or confused or some damn thing -!”

“You don’t know nothin’ about nothin’, all you do is make jokes about -!”

“Oh, will y’all _shut up_?” snapped Arthur, glancing between them irritably. “Christ almighty, you two sound like a couple of little kids. They’re gettin’ close, come on, focus on your damned horses and not bickering.”

The sound of bellowing voices and horses was indeed rising at their heels, echoing across the empty forests. They rode on, clods of mud flying up at the horses’ hooves. They were moving upwards, the elevation rising gently beneath them, and the horses were laboring a bit more beneath their legs, their ears pinned and their nostrils flaring. It was colder now, much colder, and the rain falling around them had grown denser, half water and half snow. Rane couldn’t see where they were headed through the thickness of the trees, but she thought she knew well enough what they’d come upon eventually; the piedmont. The hills were rolling and relatively low, but they were getting higher, and soon the peaks would be covered in white, if the growing chill was anything to go by. They were heading upwards, where the snow would already lay thicker. Already there was a scrim of it beneath them, accumulating with astounding rapidity. The horses’ manes were damp with it.

“Are you taking us up to the top?” Rane asked, her hair flying about her face.

“That I am,” said Arthur from up ahead.

“Hey, maybe that ain’t a good idea, huh?” John remarked as Old Boy skidded unsteadily beneath him, making him grasp for his hat. “Try to go the other way around? The horses can’t handle that incline in this shit.”

“They handled it okay when me and Javier came after you on that mountain in Ambarino!” said Arthur, a little sharply. “I didn’t hear you complainin’ about the incline then!”

“Yeah, well even _then_ you went on foot half the goddamned way!”

“Goddammit, that’s enough.” Arthur was coughing again. “They won’t follow us if we get up where the horses can’t go. Even Micah ain’t that dumb.”

“Sounds like they’re doing their damndest,” Rane muttered, glancing back. The hoofbeats of their pursuers were growing, loud in the silence.

“Well, what do you propose we do, Miss Roth? Since you’re clearly the damn military strategist among us?” John asked, sounding derisive.

“I think we should turn the horses loose and take Arthur's way up on foot.”

“ _No_ , we ain’t turnin’ the damn horses loose!” Arthur looked back at her, breathing hard. She saw a glimmer of red at the corner of his mouth. “What are you, crazy? And get stuck up there with our backs against the wall? No. Absolutely not.”

“Arthur, hang on, hear me out,” said Rane sharply, and when Arthur continued to spur his palomino on: “ _Daro! Daro, an gil’nin_!”

All three horses stopped at once, and Arthur and John both clutched the reigns at this sudden halt to keep from falling off.

“Rane, _quit_ it!” said Arthur sharply, still coughing. “Let ‘em up, we don’t have time for this shit right now!”

“If we’re going that way, we should go on foot, otherwise one of the horses is gonna lame up anyways,” said Rane, reeling Eli back as he pranced in an anxious circle in the growing snow, snorting anxiously. She gestured ahead, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “That’s too narrow a trail, Arthur, look at it. _Look_ at it. You’re smarter than that.”

Arthur did, irritated and reluctant. She was right, of course; if they ascended horseback it would have to be single file, and even then they’d be risking life and limb. Though they couldn’t see it from this angle, the drop off the side of this swell was a quarter of a mile in some places. An icy path up the side of a mountain was no place for three burdened horses.

“You really gonna do this shit right now?” John was saying tetchily. “We get off these horses and we ain’t never gonna get away from those boys.”

“If we keep riding horseback we’re all gonna end up at the bottom of that ravine. All six of us. And I actually kinda like Eli.” Rane was climbing off the saddle, her boots sliding a little in the snowy mud. “Come on, trust me for once. I’ll keep you guys safe, I always do.”

Arthur jerked his head at John. “She’s right, go on.”

John dismounted, looking uncertain. Rane waved her hands at once towards the horses, palms out, shouting.

“GO ON! _EGO_!”

The palomino and Old Boy both bolted at once, hooves flying in the snow. Eli hesitated, ears pinned against his skull, eyeing Rane with his dark eyes from beneath the tendrils of his long mane. Rane waved her hand again, brow furrowed.

“Go on, Eli! _Ego_ , I said”

He tossed his head, clearly reluctant, then turned and galloped off, tail held aloft, mud flying up at his heels. Rane watched him go with a feeling of sinking dread. The sight of his shining hindquarters retreating in the falling snow seemed strangely portentous.

“Now we _are_ fucked,” said John grimly, hands on his hips, watching Old Boy’s vanishing form.

“Oh, were we not fucked before?” said Rane sardonically. “I thought we were fucked like four days ago, to be honest.”

“You know what, you sure seem to like makin’ jokes when shit isn’t funny!” said John loudly, suddenly angry, shoving at Rane’s shoulder with the flat of his hand. She stumbled back in the snow, surprised. “You think this is _funny_ , what’s happening to us?”

“Don’t _push_ me -!”

“Hey, John, quit it!”

“No, she needs to quit makin’ fuckin’ _jokes_!” John said sharply, still glaring at Rane. “This ain’t funny, _none_ of it is! This is our _lives_ , Rane! This is my _family_! And you over there just sayin’ stupid shit tryin’ to make light of it! _Fuck_ , ain’t I tired of hearin’ it!”

Rane stood where she was for a moment, looking at him, her damp hair clinging to her face, her brows low over her eyes. Arthur was looking back at them both, his guns held loosely in each hand.

“Why you gotta be glib?” said John roughly, looking at her, his expression a little desperate. “Huh?”

“Because I’m scared shitless,” Rane admitted, glaring at him. “I can't help it. I do it when I'm scared, and right now I'm scared. Okay? So can I keep walking up the fucking mountain now, or do you have anything else you’d like to add, John?”

John fell back, looking chastened. Rane stared at him a moment longer, then yanked a sleeve down and swiped at her eyes roughly, turning from him and starting back towards the peak of the foothill. As she passed him, Arthur grasped her hand briefly.

“Rane -”

“We should keep moving,” she said softly, her voice rough, devoid now of its former bluster and sanctimony.

Arthur glanced back at John, who was standing in the snow, legs staggered, looking uncertain and unhappy, and jerked his chin.

“Come on, pard. Let’s make it up this big snowy bastard for starters. We’ll fucker the rest out once we -”

“ _Watch it_!” Rane shouted abruptly, and there was a sound like breaking glass as several bullets were deflected from the spell she’d just cast before them. The shots sailed away into the brush, ruffling the undergrowth and spraying snow. Both Arthur and John fumbled for their guns at once. Half a dozen Pinkertons had appeared on the shallow swell before them, outlined in the growing night, their boots sliding in the growing snow, aiming for them.

“God _dammit_!” Arthur bellowed, ducking behind a tree truck and aiming his gun. “Rane, they got us broadside -!”

“On it.” Rane was already twirling her wand at their assailants. "INCENDIO MAXiMA!”

A massive jet of roaring fire emerged from her wand, blowing her hair back and casting a wave of heat that washed over Arthur and John. The growing dusk of the forest around them was eliminated for a moment in its bright light. The loud rumble of the flames was drowned out at once by screams of the Pinkertons who were now enveloped. Rane wasted no time admiring her work; she stowed her wand at once, beckoning to Arthur and John.

"Let's go, they're not worried about us."

“I'd say so, yeah," said John, watching a little sickly as the flaming Pinkertons shrieked and clawed and rolled in the snow. “Come on, Arthur, we gotta go.”

They moved away from the foothill, hugging the rock wall, making their way up the side of the mountain until the sounds of their assailants had faded away, replaced with the whistling wind and the crunch of their boots in the snow. At length, Arthur grasped John's shoulder, pulling to a stop, his hat in his hand.

“Hang on, hang on, what about the money?”

“ _What_ money? Dutch’s money?”

“ _Our_ money!” Arthur was wavering on his feet, glaring at John, his mouth turned down. “Why ain’t you wantin’ to try for it, Marston?”

“ _Try_ for it?” John was gaping at Arthur. “Arthur, if I head down there, I’m dead in five minutes! That’s a fool’s errand! I got a family, that’s more important!”

“Ah, maybe you’re right, but -”

“You want the money? You head down!” said John, his voice a little wild. “I gotta go to my family.”

Rane watched this exchange silently, her wand still held loosely in one hand. After a moment Arthur smashed his hat back onto his head, nodding.

“I don’t want that goddamn money. I’m gonna get you outta this bullshit if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.”

John nodded, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, brother.”

Arthur nodded back, gesturing behind him. “Come on, Rane.”

“I’m here,” said Rane, stowing her wand and striding forward at Arthur’s side.

“We’re gonna get up alongside this mountain where they can’t get us,” said Arthur roughly, glancing at her. “And once we shake 'em, we're gonna get the hell away from here, all of us. You good with that?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“John?”

“Yep.”

Arthur nodded, satisfied, then started up the incline, his breath shearing. Rane and John followed.

THE three of the had reached the base of the foothill when the Pinkertons had attacked and then dispersed, and now as they climbed it was no uncertain thing; they were ascending to a much higher plane, and they weren’t alone. Pinkertons had invaded the nearby piedmonts and were firing at them with impunity, some of them a quarter of a mile away. These men were clearly no strangers to guns; they were hellishly accurate, militant in their pursuits.

John glanced back over his shoulder. “Rane, can you do somethin' about the ones over there?”

“I’ve got a shielding spell up,” said Rane, panting a little. “Just return fire and stay down, okay?”

“Okay. Let’s go, come on, Arthur!”

Arthur was lagging notably behind now, bent over his knees, coughing hoarsely and gasping for breath. Rane fell back, taking his arm and slinging it over her shoulder.

“Darlin’, you gotta stick close,” she admonished, and yanked on his wrist when he tried to pull away. “Nope. Come here.”

“I don’t need your goddamn -”

“Humor me.” Rane yanked him closer to her with a fistful of his shirt, feeling the frantic thumping of his heart against her shoulder. “Humor me, Arthur.”

He did, probably because he was too weak to do otherwise. The three of them strode up the mountainside, their boots sliding against the thin sheen of snow underfoot. The wind was cold and whipping up here, flinging their clothes about, sending drifts of powder wild.

“They’re goddamned everywhere!” John remarked. The gunfire from the surrounding peaks were striking Rane’s shielding spell with impunity, and the smoke from the pistols was beginning to accumulate, clouding their sight. The sound was constant and ear-splitting.

“How long does that thing hold?” Arthur asked Rane, laboring against her shoulder.

“Four, maybe five minutes.” Rane stashed her wand into her jeans. “Long enough to get away.”

“Keep pushin’!” John shouted. He was a ways ahead, his gun held loosely in one hand. “Keep pushin’, Arthur!”

Bullets were flying past them now, some of them striking the spell Rane had cast, wheeling away with a sound like breaking glass. The snowy scrabble beneath them was tough to navigate, rolling beneath their bootheels, slippery and uneven. The three of them came to a clearing among the rock, Rane bringing up the rear, and there Arthur finally stopped, leaning over his knees, putting one hand up. John stopped, looking back, realizing Arthur wasn’t on his heels any longer.

“Alright, Arthur, come on, let’s go.”

“No.” Arthur was shaking his head, still bent over his knee. “You go.”

“Keep pushin’, Arthur.”

“No.” Arthur straightened, coughing into a curled fist. “No. I think I’ve pushed all I can.”

Rane, who was skidding up to a halt beside them, froze, looking between Arthur and John, her breath coming quick, her damp hair in her face. John was watching Arthur with a curious, almost frightened expression that struck Rane as oddly childlike.

“Come _on,_ Arthur.”

“No. You go.” Arthur was still bent over his knees, coughing. John had drawn near him, his gun held across his chest, his brows knitted.

“We ain’t got time for this, not now.” John was staring Arthur, his eyes bright, his mouth turned down. “Arthur, we ain’t got time.”

Arthur shook his head, drawing near to John, and then he pulled his hat from his head, placing it briefly against his chest. He met John’s eyes frankly.

“We ain’t both gonna make it,” he said gently. “We ain’t. That’s all there is to it.”

“Arthur -”

“No, John, hush.”

“It’s horseshit, we got Rane! She can -”

“She can't always do everything for us. You gotta go.” Arthur took his hat and placed it on John’s head, his eyes hard. When he spoke, his voice was rife with emotion. “It would mean a lot to me. Please.”

John stared at him a moment longer. Rane had never seen him close to tears but she saw it now as he bowed his head, his mouth downturned, his brows drawn together beneath the rim of Arthur's hat. He looked not twenty-six but twelve in that moment, unhappy and frightened and cut open by the decision Arthur was placing before him. The wind was sharp around them, the snow falling gently and lighting on the cotton fibers of his vest. Still he held his gun across his chest like a boon, as if it could somehow protect him from this anguish. When he spoke, his voice cracked a little.

“Arthur -”

“Go. Go to your family.” Arthur was turning from him, spinning the chamber of his revolver and peering down at it, his brow furrowed. "I'll hold 'em off."

“ _Arthur_!”

“Get the hell outta here and be a goddamned MAN!” Arthur shouted.

John hesitated a moment longer, looking between them, then nodded, his mouth thin. Rane stood to one side, watching this, still and uncertain.

“You’re my brother.”

Arthur turned and met John’s eyes.

“I know,” he said gently, and nodded. “I know. Now go.”

Arthur turned from him for the last time then, continuing up the rock path towards the summit. John glanced at Rane, who was looking at him, her brow furrowed and her eyes overbright.

"Bye, John," she said softly.

John nodded, chewing his lip, his eyes on hers. In the dusk, he looked young and handsome and grief-stricken. After a moment he pulled the rim of Arthur's hat down a little further over his eyes, the way he always did when he wanted to hide himself away. It was a little thing, a touch of steel, but it heartened Rane to see it nevertheless. He was going to get away just fine.

"Goodbye," he said.

With this, he turned and fled through the snow, his dark hair trailing behind him.


	55. Micah Bell II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Rane defend themselves

  
  


_To find a queen without a king_

_They say she plays guitar and cries and sings_

_La la la la_

_Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn,_

_Tryin' to find a woman who's never, never, never been born_

_Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams_

_Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems._

  * Led Zeppelin



___________________

Rane watched John until he was out of sight, her hair flying around her face in the snow, wand grasped loosely in her fist. Arthur was behind her, boots skating in the scrabble, scoping out the mountainside.

“We should stick to this spot for the nonce,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Shore up and wait ‘em out. We got a good vantage point, this is limestone and them bastards can’t shoot around corners, try though they might. We can pick ‘em off one by one if they try to flank us.”

“Okay,” said Rane faintly, still looking after John.

“Can you shield us? From the west, at least? I can’t rightly see that way, the snowfall’s gettin’ too thick. Could be there are more of ‘em headed up to get alongside us, fire from cover.”

“Sure, yeah.”

Arthur straightened, looking over at her. “Hey.”

Rane turned to look at him, her eyes troubled and overbright beneath her brows.

“John’s gonna be okay, Rane. He ain’t dumb.”

“You said he was duller than rusted iron.”

“Well, I said a lot of things. Don’t necessarily make none of ‘em so.” He approached her, looking strangely vulnerable without his hat, and smoothed her damp hair from her forehead. “Don’t you worry about him. I known John since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, he’s tougher than he looks. He’d chew up nails and spit out bullets, that boy, believe it or not.”

Rane sighed roughly, rubbing at her eyes. “Fuck.”

“C’mere.”

Arthur pulled her to him, putting his arms around her and drawing her close to his chest. Rane surrendered willingly enough to the warmth and the smell of him, burying her face in his shirt, hearing the grating sound of his raspy breath and the quick thump of his heart.

“Feels like it’s all going to pieces, doesn’t it?” Rane remarked, low, her arms around Arthur’s trim waist. “Just going to bits.”

“Well, it is, that’s why it feels that way, like as not,” said Arthur, his voice low and rumbling in his chest. He pulled back, taking her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. “Things go unwell and you’re gonna go after John, ain’t ya?”

Rane scoffed. “You know better than to ask me that.”

Arthur was fixing her with a grim look. “You know what, you're right. That conversation doesn’t need to be had, because we’re both gonna get off this shitty mountain.”

Rane scoffed derisively, her eyes filled with tears. “We’ve got forty-odd men gunning for us, Arthur. Two of them know you better than I do. How do you think this will end?”

“With us laughing our goddamn asses off on a beach someplace, I hope.”

Rane laughed herself, the tears falling from her eyes freely now. Arthur wiped them away with his thumb and kissed her mouth gently.

"Alright, quit bein’ dramatic and help me shore this bastard up. How ‘bout it?”

Rane looked at him a moment, biting her lip, then nodded. “Okay.”

It was five, maybe six minutes before the Pinkertons were firing on them. Arthur had been right, the gunshots were coming from the West, where the snowfall was obscuring their view. As a result their aim was lacking, which was just as well; Rane’s spell sent their bullets flying askance regardless. The two of them hid behind a boulder, Arthur with both guns drawn, Rane with her wand in her hand, reupping her spell every now and then. It was becoming harder and harder to see; the snow, and the gunsmoke, were obscuring the view across the canyon with rapidity. The bullets from their assailants were beginning to fly wide, too, clearly due to the same thing.

“PROTEGO MAXIMA!” Rane glanced sidelong at Arthur. “I can’t see them, there’s too much -!”

A shot rang out, shockingly loud. Rane reeled, crying out and grasping her stomach. A broad, black hole had opened in her midsection, just above her navel, blowing a massive hole in her shirt and scattering blood onto the snow behind her. She fell back, arms pinwheeling, her wand clattering from her hand, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Arthur staggered back against the boulder, staring at the blood in the snow, utterly shocked.

“RANE!”

It took him the space of a second to realize that the shot had not come from across the gorge, but behind them, and then Micah Bell tackled Arthur, bellowing. Rane craned her neck back, still grasping her stomach, looking at them and gasping for breath.

“Arthur, Jesus Christ, he got behind us -!”

“I gotcha now, Black Lung!” Micah was crying, and with the hand that wasn’t clutching at Arthur’s shirt he punched him hard, sending a spray of blood onto the snow. “Survivors, right? _Survivors_!”

“You son of a BITCH, you SHOT her -!”

"Figured I'd get her outta the way first," said Micah gleefully, glancing towards Rane and grinning beneath his mustache. "Wasn't quick enough to hook _that_ one, was ya, honey?"

“FUCKING ASSHOLE!” Rane shrieked, her voice hoarse.

"You watch your mouth, girl, I'll put another one right between your damn -!"

Rane lunged forward as he started for her, grasping him about the ankles, crying out with effort. Micah, shocked by this, pinwheeled his arms for a moment before falling over awkwardly, directly into Arthur. The three of them went tumbling off the side of the cliff in an unwieldy conglomeration of limbs, landing in a spot of greenery below, both Arthur and Micah rolling away and groaning. Rane fell into a patch of rocks with her full weight, all grace departed, and felt one of her ribs snap - the same one she'd broken years ago after Albus Dumbledore had died, as a matter of fact - and gasped, clutching at her chest, moaning.

Micah was already getting up, snow clinging to his jeans, his mouth now bleeding, and Arthur, staggering up, made for him at once, tackling him about the midsection. They went after one another again, throwing fists through the snow. Rane rolled over, grasping at her stomach, breathing hard and looking around. Her wand was a little ways away, lying in the snow, glimmering in the low light. Blood from her wound was staining the snow around her.

“You’ve lost!” Micah was crowing. "You've lost, Black Lung! You've -!"

Arthur kicked Micah away, the bottom of his boot meeting Micah's stomach, and Micah staggered back in the snow, coughing. He laughed, a little winded by the blow, clutching his bleeding nose.

“Still got a little fight in ya, have ya, boy?”

“More than a little, you rat son of a bitch, can’t even kill a dyin’ man -”

“Your girlfriend don’t look so good,” Micah remarked, laughing roughly as Arthur grasped at his throat. “She ain’t too long for this world, hole like that -!”

“I’ll open up your goddamned chest, what you done to her -!”

“You don’t need to! I already did it for ya! Take a look at 'er!”

Micah shoved Arthur roughly away. Arthur staggered, falling back, his palms skating across the rock and drawing blood, and for a moment he simply lay there, halfway propped up, clutching at his chest and coughing, his eyes red. Micah turned from him and took a few steps towards Rane, looking down at her from beneath his hat, smirking. She was lying on the rock, clutching her belly, blood pouring from the wound in her midsection, her face pale and her brows drawn, gasping, reaching desperately for her wand.

“I don't think you're gonna be able to fix it this time, little girl. Matter fact, I think your fixer might be busted.”

He toed her wand nearer to him with his boot, and then with one swift motion brought his heel down on it. Her wand snapped with a sharp sound, splinters of the ebony wood flying against the snow, emitting a final, weak burst of purple sparks before falling dark forever.

“There.” Micah lifted his boot, leering. “You ain’t so tough without your stick, are ya?”

"Ohh, you mother _fucker_ ," Rane moaned, rolling onto her back, clutching herself, her hands covered with her own blood. "I'l have your balls for that."

"I'm sure you w -"

Arthur tackled Micah from behind with a cry of effort, sending him into the snow. Micah rolled over him, struggling and panting.

“Hope you’re ready for hell, Black Lung -!"

“Get - the fuck - _OFF_ of me -!”

Arthur threw Micah from him with an effort. Micah rolled off to one side, his mouth bleeding, gasping. Arthur rolled over and began to crawl for the summit, his hands grasping at the soil, his breath shearing. Micah was getting to his feet behind him, his nose running with blood, laughing.

“C’mere, Black Lung!” Micah was out of breath, laughing, striding for him and straddling him roughly. “All there is is winning or losing, boy -!”

Micah was punching him now, again and again. Rane rolled over onto her stomach, screaming.

“STOP! _STOP_!”

“Your girlfriend's got a big fuckin' mouth, Morgan.” Micah punctuated this with a punch that dislodged one of Arthur’s molars, sending it skittering onto the rock, then rose and started for Rane, his gait loping. “Maybe you oughta shut her up, ‘less she wants to come along.”

“You LET HER ALONE!”

Micah responded to this by aiming a kick at Rane which took her squarely in the chin. She gasped, flung over onto her back, clutching her mouth, blood rolling from between her fingers. Micah turned back to Arthur, smirking.

“You son of a -!”

Arthur pulled one of his revolvers from his belt. Micah kicked it away, sending it skittering across the rock.

“You ain’t got it in ya, Black Lung. You’re halfway dead as is, and so is sh -”

Arthur kicked Micah in the knee, hard. Micah staggered back, his leg buckling, grasping at his leg in the snow, his face shining with sweat, sucking his teeth. Arthur rolled onto his belly, trying for the gun that had been flung away from him, his breath shearing between his teeth.

Micah was getting to his feet, laughing grimly and gasping for breath. “You ain’t never gonna reach that gun!”

"Micah -" Rane was army-crawling towards him, her brow knitted with effort, leaving a trail of her own blood behind her. It coated her arms up to the elbow. "Micah - leave him - leave him alone - !"

Arthur reached the gun that had skittered from his grasp, but as his hand strayed near to it, a shining black boot fell over it, pressing it against the rock. Arthur looked up, his brow furrowed, gasping.

Dutch Van Der Linde stood there. His face was without sympathy, his dark hair damp against his skull, his face unshaven. Arthur turned his face up to Dutch, rasping. Dutch kicked Arthur's pistol a little further away, still watching him.

“Oh, Dutch.” He shook his head, his voice rough. “He’s a rat. You know it and I know it. Look what he did to the girl. Look what he did to her.”

Dutch glanced up, still quite expressionless. Rane was still lying on the rock some ways back, belly-down, grasping at the rocks, her dark hair in her eyes, glaring ahead. The snow and the rock was gory with her blood, smeared everywhere in impossible amounts. Her face was white, the red on her mouth shockingly vivid.

"You - you - " Rane's voice was a little faint, but the gaze she fastened on Dutch was full of pure vitriol, her lips curving up into a sneer, her teeth red with her own blood. "You son of a . . . you _son of a_ . . . !"

“She’s talkin’ crazy, they both are,” said Micah, shaking his head mournfully. "He's sick. He's tired, Dutch."

“There! Up on the ridge!”

The voices were coming from behind them. Micah and Dutch turned, eyeing the mountains, eclipsed by snow.

“I gave you all I had.”

Dutch looked down. Arthur was grasping at his boot, looking up at him, blood running now from the corner of his mouth freely. His thin chest was heaving. “I gave it all. I did.”

Dutch looked at him a long moment, his mouth working. His eyes seemed far away.

“I . . . “

“Come on, Dutch,” said Micah roughly. He aimed a kick at Rane which took her in the shoulder, making her groan loudly. “These two ain’t long for this world. We need to go. We made it, buddy.”

Dutch looked at Micah silently, his mouth thin.

“We _won_!” said Micah. “Come on!”

“ _John_ made it,” said Arthur softly, his voice coarse. “He’s the only one. I tried, in the end. I did.”

His breath was tight and rasping, and Dutch was staring at him. Rane watched him, gasping in the snow, clutching her bleeding stomach. After a moment, Dutch turned from all three of them, striding away in the snow and the dirt, washing his hands of it all. Micah made a sound of frustration in his throat and jerked away, stowing his pistols in his belt and running off down the mountain, boots skidding in the snow. Then Arthur and Rane were alone with the howling wind.

Rane crawled laboriously toward Arthur, who was lying face-up in the snow, staring at the sky. She grasped at his shirt, dragging herself closer to him.

“You’re okay,” she muttered, her mouth near his ear. His breath was rough, so rough, rasping from between his slightly parted lips, gravelly and horrible. She had never heard him sound this bad, as if something inside of him were broken. "They're gone now, you're okay, Arthur, just - just hang in there -"

“Sweetheart, I’m about as far from okay as they get,” Arthur replied, sounding clear and droll. “Are you -?”

“I’m fine,” said Rane. She wasn’t - she could feel warm blood rushing through her fingers as she clutched her wound even now - but Arthur didn’t need to know about that right now. “Are you hurting? Are you in pain?”

“Nah. Nah. Never." It was a lie at least as brass as her own, and Rane saw it right away, even as he took his hand and touched her cheek, his palm trembling against her skin. The truth was in his eyes, which were overbright and fixed on hers. "I ain't, honey. I don't feel a damn thing."

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“No I ain’t.”

Rane looked down at him a moment longer, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks, shaking her head. Arthur reached a hand up and touched her cheek gently.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

“I’m shot up bad, Arthur.”

“Yeah, I know you are. I know you're hurtin' even though you ain't tellin' me the truth about it.”

“My wand is broken.”

“You're gonna be okay.”

“You’re awfully optimistic.”

“Well, I am.” Arthur reached up and took her cheek in one hand, stroking her skin with his thumb. “Don't you quit, you keep on with it. Don't you give in. You get outta this. You promise me, girl."

Rane pressed her mouth against his, feeling the coolness of his lips beneath hers, the weakness of his response. “Arthur -”

"Promise me. Do it."

Rane sighed roughly. "I promise."

“And you _keep_ that promise, Rane.” Arthur’s voice was growing faint now, his eyes unfocused. “I'm awful tired, honey -"

"No," Rane moaned, low, grasping his lapels. "No, no, Arthur, don't leave me here alone . . . please don't leave me here, don't leave me alone again -"

"Rane, you're gonna be fine -"

"You promised. You _promised_." Rane sobbed roughly, her face screwed up, looking between his bloodshot, unfocused blue eyes. "You _promised me_!"

“I know I did,” said Arthur, and with one hand reached up and touched her cheek gently. “I’m sorry. I’ll miss you, honey. I love you, Rane. I love . . .”

The light went out of his eyes slowly, and the hand he’d reached up to touch her cheek with fell back onto the the snow. Rane fell into something like a panic, her mouth turning down and her face cramping.

“No, no no, no, _Arthur_ -”

But he did not respond to the frantic shaking, to the palms on his cheek. He could have been sleeping. Rane pulled away from him, settling back, her legs stretched out around Arthur. She remained there a moment, her thin chest heaving, bleeding from the wound in her stomach, so hopped up on adrenaline that she could scarcely feel it at all. Arthur lay there before her, motionless. After a moment, recognizing the stillness of Arthur's chest for what it was - realizing that he had finally gone to where she could not follow - she bowed her head and wept, holding her face in her hands over his body, her shoulders heaving. The mountain around her was silent as she mourned, the snow remorseless, falling on the dead and the living alike, and it lit on the fine hairs around Arthur's temple as she sobbed, lying down beside him, wrapping her arms around his chest and burying her face in the still-warm hollow of his shoulder.


	56. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes by, and things change

_Spring is frozen now i'm stuck in low_

_Wrapped with wire, tapped to the heart_

_Can't find no poison, now i've got no cure_

_The fangs are stuck inside my skin_

_Payne county line_

_Watching unjust claims_

_One man's righteousness is another man's_

_Long haul, sentence carried out_

_Long haul, counting the miles_

_To the four corners of the world._

  * **Calexico**



____________________________

Time passed.

The night grew overhead, but Rane Roth remained where she was, lying next to Arthur Morgan, her head resting lightly against his cool shoulder, shivering. The snow continued to fall, gentle, lighting on both of them. Every little while, as it began to accumulate, Rane would reach over and sweep Arthur’s coat off, wipe it away from his forehead, brush it out of his hair. It was hellishly cold, and her motions were uneven, trembling and weak. The blood seeping from the wound in her belly had slowed to a sluggish excretion, pooling around her blackly, and though there was pain - quite a lot of it - it seemed distant, vague, almost as if it belonged to somebody else. The world slipped in and out of focus, seeming to cycle; for a moment she was clear, lucid, feeling the rough cotton of Arthur’s coat against her arm, watching the clouds ripple and flex overhead, occasionally giving enough to glimpse the stars. In another moment it was dark, and strange, and half-formed faces capered before her eyes. Her father, Harry, Idril, John, Hermione. Many others, but most of all Dutch, and Micah. The thought of those two men, laden with plundered riches and high-tailing it for the territories as she lay dying and Arthur Morgan lay dead, filled Rane with such a terrible, black fury that it seemed to brighten the life within her from its fading glow to a frightful brilliance, turning the slow, weak beat of her heart into a mad gallop. She imagined following them, of sound mind and body again, and cutting them down, standing over them and watching the life leaving their eyes, letting them appreciate why she had hunted them, saying Arthur’s name, allowing that name to follow them down into hell on the wind of her own breath.

It was this thought, above almost everything else, that kept Rane Roth on the skin of the earth a little longer that night.

Pinkertons showed up before too long, less than a dozen of them. They were filthy, soaked to the bone, their breath shearing out in front of their faces in white clouds. When they came upon the rocky outcropping where Micah and Arthur had fought, they all stopped, staring around in shock, guns hanging loosely at their sides.

“Jesus Christ!” one of them said, his face long with horror. “Jesus Christ, what the hell _happened_ here? Goddamned blood all _over_ the place! _Look_ at all of it!”

“Where the hell’d it come from?” another said, glancing around. “You don’t think Van der Linde bought it, do ya? Got winged or somethin’ and bled out?”

“Nah, look.” One of the Pinkertons gestured toward where Arthur and Rane lay. All of them lifted their guns at once, tensing. “Blood’s that girl’s, I’d wager.”

“Is she dead?”

One of the Pinkertons approached Rane, staring down his vest at her, gun held loosely before him in both hands. She lay quite still, eyelids fluttering, her breath puffing out of her parted lips in a weak, rapid mist, one hand still clutching Arthur’s wrist. He toed her with one boot.

“Just about,” he said, glancing back and stowing his gun. “She’s gutshot real good. Surprised she made it this long, all the blood she lost. Looks like a damn slaughterhouse around here, she must be plumb dried out.”

“Who is she? One of Van der Linde’s?”

“That there’s Rane Roth, the one that Harker feller is after,” said one of the Pinkertons, lifting his chin at her. “And that big bastard beside her, that’s Arthur Morgan, Dutch’s second.”

“He dead?”

“Yep. Some time gone now, from the looks of him.” The Pinkerton nearest Rane glanced backwards, the snowflakes catching on his beard. “Whatcha wanna do, Sergeant? Oughtn’t we pick ‘em up and take ‘em down with us?”

Another Pinkerton - this one with a broad ginger mustache and a large silver star pinned to his lapel - shook his head at once, waving a hand. “Hell _no_ , we oughtn’t.”

“We’ll catch hell we show back up empty-handed, sir, like as not.”

“Maybe so, but I can’t yet be bothered to lug these sorry sods all the way down this mountain, not without a beast of burden,” the Sergeant said roughly. “Harker’ll just have to be happy with us tellin’ him his girl is fixin’ to be buzzard bait, and if he gets his tail up about it he can march his happy ass on up here and see for hisself. As far as Morgan goes, we got ten fellers what’ll attest to seein’ his dead body. Ain’t we?”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“Shouldn’t we put her outta her misery?” one of the Pinkertons asked, somewhat timidly. He was looking down at Rane with something like pity. “Might could be hours, Sergeant, maybe even ‘til dawn before she succumbs. She’s in a real bad way, I reckon she’s in a lotta pain -”

“Mister Huxley, Rane Roth is personally responsible for executing twenty-four of our own men in Saint Denis and another twelve in Eris Field some days prior,” said the Sergeant roughly, casting Rane a cold look. “Some of them boys was burned so bad we couldn’t even identify ‘em. Hell, one of ‘em had his head chopped clean off. If that truly is Roth in the snow over there, I ain’t one bit sorry to see her tail feathers trimmed, any more than I’m sorry to see this damn mountain painted with her blood. Far as I’m concerned, she can bleed out real good and slow. She don’t deserve no mercy from the likes of anybody.”

A brief silence fell amongst them, in which Rane’s faint, ragged breathing could be heard, hoarse and grating and rapid.

“Come on, boys. We still got Van der Linde to apprehend. Get a move on, the lot of ya. Ain’t nothin’ to see here no more, all this action’s done and dusted.”

They moved on then, their footsteps fading into the whistling wind, and then Rane was alone once again, shivering faintly in the cold, her lips pale and blue and her eyes rolling in her head, blood crusted against her cheek. For a little while, it was dark again.

  
  


SOME time later, Rane came to again. This time it wasn’t Pinkertons, it was the soft, velvety muzzle of a horse, exploring her face and her neck, nibbling, the breath hot against her skin.

She opened her eyes. Eli stood there, head lowered to hers, tail flicking behind him. Both his ears were pinned against his skull, and his dark eyes were large and frightened. Rane turned her head a little, resettling her tongue in her mouth. It felt as dry as carpet.

“Eli,” she breathed.

Eli whinnied, ear-splittingly loud so near to her face. Rane cringed against the sound, her head pounding evilly.

“Eli, get out of here.”

Eli nudged her chin, hard enough to fling Rane closer to Arthur. She gasped, coughing hoarsely.

“Quit.”

He lowered himself to the snowy earth, moving close to her, placing his body against her own. Rane lifted a hand, stroking him, feeling the firm flesh beneath his coarse hair. She grasped at his mane.

“Eli . . . Eli . . .”

With a terrific effort she pulled herself nearer to him, and somehow - even in retrospect she could never understand how, when she was so weak even drawing breath was an Olympic effort - she swung her body over his back, placing her foot into the opposite stirrup, her head lolling bonelessly over Eli’s neck. He rose at once, whickering, and the motion caused the saddlehorn to drive against Rane’s gunshot wound. She cried out, low, feeling the warm rush of fresh blood flowing out of her and onto the saddle.

“Arthur. Arthur.” Rane reached out weakly, her face against Eli’s mane, glancing towards Arthur as Eli trotted away, his hooves sliding in the snow. She looked once more at his face as he lay there in the snow, his hands lax and palms-up, his dirty blond hair tousled and damp, his eyelids a little bruised, his mouth still stained with a scrim of blood, devastatingly handsome even in death. It was the last time she ever saw him. “Wait, we . . . we have to . . . Arthur . . . Eli, wait, what about _Arthur_ . . .?”

Eli tossed his head, starting down the mountain. Rane’s eyes fell closed, her fists still grasping Eli’s long mane, and for a little while longer she knew no more.

  
  


ELI cantered for nearly four miles. They passed no one on the trails, not even transients, probably due to the hour, and Rane managed to stay in the saddle by some obscure miracle, slumped over and bleeding steadily. Eli reached Annesburg around midnight, trotting through the muddy streets amidst the sounds of faint, waning drunken cries in the pubs nearby. He came to a halt at last in front of a physician’s office, and not because he knew that he ought to be heading that way. The doctor’s assistant was sitting on the porch steps, smoking a cigarette, something he was expressly forbidden to do during business hours. Had Eli arrived five minutes before or after, he would not have been outdoors, but cloistered in his quarters, bedding down, and things may have turned out very differently indeed.

The assistant - his name was Clayton Cole, a kid of nineteen, fresh off the train from West Elizabeth - got to his feet, spotting the large, heavy black horse trotting down the ill-lit dirt street, fetlocks matted and filthy against the cobblestone. As he passed beneath one of the dim streetlamps, Clayton saw the side of the horse was shining with fresh blood, and he was leaving a scant trail of it behind him. It stretched back past the eye could see in big, wet splotches. And its rider was slumped over in the saddle, hair wavering in front of her face, still and silent. Not the horses’s blood, then, but that of his mistress.

“Oh, Jesus fuckin’ Christ -” Clayton staggered to his feet, thin arms pinwheeling, his cigarette falling into the dirt in a spray of sparks. “Oh Jesus Christ, hey! _Hey_ , whoa there, fella! Gee, now, whoa! WHOA, I said!”

Eli spooked a little, eyes rolling, as Clayton approached, grasping at his lax bridle and touching his nose gently. Rane jerked bonelessly on his back as he did, hair rippling damply over the saddlehorn.

“Easy, there, boy, easy now, lemme have a look. Set right there, now, be real still. _Whoa_ , now.” He turned, glaring back towards the building behind them. The aging sign over the door, swinging in the wind and creaking, read **MEDICINES AND AID, DR. SAMUEL EARP, III**. “DOC, WE NEED YA OUT HERE PRESENTLY!”

There was a scuffle inside, and a light came on, casting its scant glow onto the damp porch outside. An old man with wild white hair appeared in the doorway, grasping a pistol, clad only in a nightgown. When he spoke, it was with a faint Scottish accent.

“Clayton, just what in the holy hell are you hollerin’ about, then -?”

He stopped, spotting Rane astride Eli, who was stamping restively. Clayton was struggling with his bridle, looking backwards.

“She’s hurt real bad, Doctor Earp, I think she might be dead but I can’t rightly tell.”

“Get out of the way. Keep that horse calm, boy.” Earp shoved Clayton aside, yanking Rane towards him by the scruff of her shirt. Her head lolled back, her mouth hanging open. He placed an ear against her chest, jerking her shoulders nearer to him to do so. After a moment he drew back, grasping her beneath the armpits and yanking her laboriously down. She came without fanfare, her arms flagging.

“She dead, doc?”

“Not yet, but she ain’t a far cry from it, her heart ain’t got much more fight. Tie that horse up and get indoors with me.” Earp lifted Rane into his arms with surprising strength for a man his age, her long hair dangling over one elbow, rippling damply in the faint wind. “She’s been shot up fair bad.”

“Ought we should send for the doctors in Saint Denis?”

“Nay, nay, belay that. They can’t do jack shite in time to help her, with her state. Gotta be us. Fasten that stallion and get indoors, like I said.” Earp was striding into the office, his nightgown already stained with Rane’s blood. “We’ve some work to do, if this lassie is gonna walk outta here.”

The two of them were at her most of the night. Clayton was asleep in the corner of the operating room by the end of it, his thin chin on his breastbone, scant arms crossed across his chest. Doctor Earp remained at Rane’s bedside for a few hours after the bullet had been removed and her popped rib was put to rights. He'd given her enough anesthesia to dumb down a bull moose, but still she was lucid, her eyelids fluttering, watching him with full awareness as he packed her wound. His eyes cut to hers frequently, unnerved by the presence in her gaze.

“What’s your name, girl?” he asked her at length as she stared up at him, abandoning pretense. Her eyes were hazel, bright and aware. She was beautiful in a way he had never seen, with her full lips and dark brows, no older than thirty. She seemed ethereal, somehow. “Can you tell me your name?”

Rane groaned, low in her throat, shifting. “My name.”

“Yes, your name.” Earp grasped her hand gently in his. “My name is Sam Earp. I’m a doctor. Your horse brought you here.”

“Earp.” Rane smiled faintly, her head rolling away from his. “Like Wyatt.”

“Wyatt?”

“Wyatt Earp.”

“The gunslinger?” Earp shook his head, smiling a little. “No relation, my dear. Much as I might like.”

Rane sighed roughly, shaking her head. “At least you know who he is.”

“What’s your name, dear heart? What happened to you? Who did this?”

Rane turned her face from his, saying no more, her eyes falling shut and her breath lengthening. Earp leaned back in his chair, its wooden parapets squeaking, sighing.

“Alright. So be it, lassie. Rest up.”

He drew the blankets over her scant chest, getting up and turning from her, pulling off his white coat. He hung it on the door, glancing briefly at Clayton - he was still fast asleep, his boots crossed in front of him - and then left the little room, blowing out the lantern as he went. The sword that had hung on the girl's belt rested on the table nearby. It was nearing four in the morning.

The sun rose the next day on a fresh, light coat of snow. Earp woke to Clayton’s voice, once again.

“Doctor Earp! DOCTOR EARP!”

Earp made his way downstairs, flinging his robe about his bare shoulders, his hair in disarray. Clayton stood by the door of the clinic, his young face drawn.

“What is it, Clayton?”

“She’s gone! That girl from last night, she’s gone!”

Earp scoffed. “She can’t be gone, that wound -!”

“She’s gone and so’s that horse!”

Earp pushed past him, looking out onto the streets. The black stallion was indeed nowhere to be seen, and a trail of hoofprints, faint but fairly fresh, led off toward the outskirts of town. The bed where Rane had lay was empty save the scrim of blood she’d left from her wound.

“Christ almighty, she won’t make it a day,” Earp muttered.

“How the fuck did she get up and leave, doc? She was gutshot, she couldn’t hardly even move!”

“I don’t know,” said Earp faintly, clutching his robe to his chest and staring at the hoofprints in the snow. Already the new fall was beginning to obscure them. “I sure as hell do not.”

Three years went by.


	57. Sadie Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sadie reunite

  
  


_Let me tell you, buddy_

_There's a faster gun_

_Coming over yonder_

_When tomorrow comes_

_Let me tell you, buddy_

_And it won't be long_

_Till you find yourself singing_

_Your last cowboy song._

  * **Willie Watson**



_____________________________________

  
  


Late May was always a hectic time for New Hanover, and the year 1902 was no different than any that had come before. It was ranch country, had been since the Heartlands were still feral and untilled, and cowpunchers were hard at work all the way across the territory driving their herds, either to pasture or to auction. It had been a good winter, mild and fairly dry - this Spring’s thaw hadn’t even taken the Dakota River up to the cut bank - and calving had been remarkably prolific as a result. Though some folks took that sort of fortune with a touch of suspicion, even the small-time ranchers felt a little bit like Charles Goodnight that year. There were rumors that the going price was seventeen dollars a head in some places and slated to hit seventeen-fifty, maybe even eighteen, before the usual summertime recession. It was the sort of windfall that could make many lives much more manageable.

As a result of these things, Valentine was a positively buoyant place that May, full of life and sound and people, and John Marston cared for it not at all.

It wasn’t the cheer that he hated, of course, but rather the business it drew, and therefore the crowds. He’d had a hard time keeping his head down over the last three years or so, and just a few weeks back, as the last of the snow began to unbend, he’d finally wound up in a place where he thought he, Abigail and Jack could put down some roots for a spell. It was a ranch, about half an hour’s ride out of town, where he’d been hired on as a hand and given a little dwelling on the property. The three of them had been what amounted to vagrants since Dutch had run them off in ‘99, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault but John’s. He’d play the straight and narrow like a good boy for a little while, then he’d fall right off that bona fide wagon one way or another, and back on the road they’d go. Abigail was getting fed up with it, and she wasn’t shy about telling him so, either, often in ways that made him feel about six inches tall. It had been a difficult few years in more ways than one.

So the very last thing he needed to be doing was riding through a lively town full of caballeros with lined pockets and cheerful dispositions, all of them hopped up on their own success. A happy man was a friendly man, and a friendly man was liable to want to chaw the rag. And it might transpire that sooner or later, one of those happy-go-lucky vaqueros would realize that Jim Milton, the mild-mannered, biddable ranch hand from just outside of town, looked an awful lot like a scarred-up, iron-slinging hardcase by the name of John Marston who had robbed the local bank a few years back and laid half the town low. Yet here he was. And the reason for this ill-advised visit was waiting for him in the saloon up ahead.

Hopefully.

  
  


JOHN tied Rachel to the hitching post outside the bar, patting her withers gently as he did and glancing around him, keeping the brim of his hat pulled low. The sun was low in the western sky, tinting the town faintly crimson as it sank, and the dust of many hooves and many boots passing in the streets hung in the air around him, fragrant with manure and tobacco smoke. The sounds of boozy banter and laughter was already on the rise inside the batwing doors ahead. Not yet sunset and already snot-slinging drunk. These boys weren’t wasting any time, that much was for sure.

John Marston strode up the wooden steps to the saloon with the same loping gait that had carried him across countless other dusty towns in his day, a dark, wiry man in a filthy denim vest and a pair of worn jeans, a gunbelt slung low around his lean hips. He pressed the doors back, looking around, but he didn’t need to look for long. She was sitting at the bar, head lowered, poring over her beer, her blond hair hanging around her face, trailing loose of the braid that fell down her back, silent amid the bluster and noise of the saloon. For a moment John simply stood there and looked at her, feeling a strange sense of déja vu. It was like he’d traveled back three years, before things had gone so sour.

She saw him after a moment, glancing up from her beer and spotting him walking slowing into the dimly lit saloon, pulling his hat off and holding it against his chest, looking absurdly deferential, as hesitant as a tenderfoot in his wedding chambers. She got to her feet at once, grinning, and strode toward him, both arms held out.

“John goddamn Marston!” she cried, and flung both arms around him. John, surprised, laughed, hugging her back. “I thought I heard a rumor you was still alive!”

“It’s good to see you!” John remarked honestly, grinning in spite of himself, drawing back and holding her at arm’s length. “Look at ya. Goddamn. Sadie Adler. You look great. Not a crack in you.”

It was true; she was just as sprightly and bright-eyed as the last time he’d clapped eyes on her. When had it been? When she had busted him out of Sisika? Had to be.

“Yeah, well, I guess my mama musta had good genes, because it sure ain’t my lifestyle done it for me,” said Sadie, beaming up at him and ushering him over to the bar, taking his elbow in her arms. “Come on, grab some seat and knock one or two back, why don’t ya? Christ, it’s good to see a familiar face.” She gestured to the barkeep. “Two more, fella, and keep ‘em comin’!”

“Yes’m,” the barkeep agreed, hopping to it. John took a seat at the bar next to her, setting his hat on the table. Sadie lifted her chin toward it.

“My memory might not be so good, but I reckon that mighta belonged to somebody else once upon a time.”

John nodded, touching the hat with the tips of his fingers almost reverently. “It surely did, yeah. Wish its owner was still around to wear it instead of me.”

“Well.” Sadie leaned her head back, rubbing the back of her neck. “I think you speak for a lot of us with that one, friend.”

The subject of Arthur Morgan hung pregnantly between them for a moment. John cleared his throat at length, drawing the beer the bartender slid him closer and drinking deep on it.

“So how’d ya find me?”

“Jim Milton? That you?” Sadie glanced askance at him, looking amused. “You ain’t so good at hidin’ yourself, John, believe it or not.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It surely seems to be.” Sadie sat back, swirling her beer around in her glass a moment before tossing back a mouthful, the dim lights flickering off the fine hairs at the crown of her head. “I heard tell of a pretty man with black hair and a scar across his face first, and I sorta suspected, and then I heard about a feller up in Roanoke killed with a bullet through the forehead, and that’s when I figured it out. That you, did that?”

John sighed, nodding. “Yeah, it sure was. Guess I wasn’t too good about hidin’ my tracks.”

“Well, I guess we can’t deny our natures, at the end of it,” Sadie admitted, shaking her head. “Abigail and Jack?”

“Fine. Both of ‘em. Better’n fine, I like to think.” John peered at the musty bottles behind the bar, pensive. “Abigail, she ain’t takin’ to this new lifestyle as well as I might have hoped, but then again I never hoped for much, so -”

“Ah, well that don’t surprise me none to hear,” said Sadie, smirking over her glass. “Abigail wasn’t never made for the road.”

“No, she wasn’t. She should be on a homestead someplace.” John sighed, rubbing his forehead. “That’s what I’m aimin’ for, once I’m able.”

“Well, knowin’ you, I’m sure you’ll arrive there.”

John looked at Sadie’s profile, hesitant, then, with a touch of almost absurd pride, said, “I’m lookin’ to buy some property up west of Blackwater. I’m kind of a farmer now.”

He’d expected her to laugh, and he wasn’t disappointed. It was good-natured, though, and it made him feel a little more confident.

“John Marston shovelin’ cowshit,” she remarked, grinning. “Now that’s a sight I wouldn’t never have imagined mortal eyes would see.”

“Hey, you’d be surprised,” said John, smiling, glancing at her with an expression of ersatz offense. “I can do all kinds of fancy honest shit now, Sadie. I can milk cows, I can harrow fields, I can thresh grain . . .”

“Jesus wept,” said Sadie, laughing. She clapped him on the back. “Good for you, Marston. Miracles really do come true.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, you know how it is.” Sadie ran her finger around the rim of her glass, smirking. “Bounties, mostly. Some other stuff. Good and bad. Hey, you have any interest in bounties?”

John laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, nah. I’ve gone straight.” He laughed, low. “Sort of.”

“Oh, Lord. Wonders never cease.”

“I guess they don’t.”

“Well. On that note, let me just get right into why I wanted to see ya, because I never really figured you for the bounty-takin’ sort these days, if we’re bein’ honest. Hoped, but not figured.”

John sipped his beer, watching her curiously. “And what’s that?”

Sadie leaned forward a little, meeting his eyes. “Two things, John.”

“And they are?”

“First one is that I think I mighta found Micah.”

“ _Micah_.” John watched her eyes, his brow knitting. “Micah _Bell_?”

Sadie nodded her head, grinning grimly. “The one and only. I got a lead on where he’s at.”

“ _How_?”

Sadie sipped long from her beer and pursed her lips, looking at her hands resting above the bar. “One of his old buddies turned up drinkin’ in Strawberry. Cleet. You remember him? Scrawny little rat-faced bastard?"

"Yeah, I remember him," John muttered, low, scowling. "Don't I ever."

"Well, Cleet’s wanted for killin’ a woman, but it seems like he's just as dumb as ol' Micah was because he's still prancin' around town with his face all out for God and everybody to see. He ain't gonna be hard to find. If we get to him, we get to Micah. And John, Micah won’t be far behind. You know as good as I do how he sticks close to his cronies. He likes his little security detail, the fuckin' coward.”

"And you wanna go after him."

Sadie snorted. "You bet your skinny ass I wanna go after him, John. After what he did to Arthur? To everybody?" She shook her head. "I tell you what, I tried to kid myself for a little bit after I realized I was lookin' at Cleet on that wanted sign, that maybe I ought to leave well enough alone, that enough time had passed for everyone to just move on down the road. Lasted about a day before I saw sense. Arthur saved most of our necks more times than I can count, he didn't deserve what happened at the end. And it was all because of that son of a bitch Micah. He's got it comin', John. And I know good and well you wanna see him pay for what he done just as bad as me," she added, looking over at him shrewdly. "If I feel this way after knowin' Arthur less than a year, I bet you got it a damn sight worse having known him most of your life."

John turned his face from hers, staring at his hands, chewing his lips. She was right, naturally; he'd thought of Micah nearly every day over the past three years, had done a fair amount of searching himself, though none of it had been fruitful and his family's presence had hampered much of it. There'd been not so much as a whisper of the man that he'd discerned, and Lord above knew he'd looked, had scoured newspapers and wanted ads and monthlies. He wondered distantly what he'd have done with this information if he'd come across it before Sadie. Probably lit out after the son of a bitch then and there.

“Abigail ain’t gonna like this,” he muttered, low.

“Well, she’ll like this next bit even less, knowin’ her.”

John glanced sidelong at Sadie, uneasy. “And what’s that, exactly?”

Sadie polished off her beer, throwing her head back to do it, then slammed the glass onto the counter. This done, she pulled a pack of smokes from her breast pocket, mouthed one out and lit it with a match that she popped alight with her thumbnail, waving it out over the bar and flicking it away.

“The second part,” said Sadie, smirking around her smoke, “is that I’m pretty damn sure Rane Roth is alive.”

John stared at her a long moment, saying nothing, feeling a curious lightness in his chest. He was abruptly aware of his heartbeat, quick beneath his shirt.

“Rane Roth,” he said at last, a little faint.

“You remember her?” Sadie smirked at him knowingly over her smoke. “I bet you do.”

“‘Course I remember her. She died with Arthur up there on that mountain. Shot up by Micah, from what I heard tell.”

“Well, I heard as much, too, I'm sure we all did, but here’s the thing.” Sadie leaned forward, clutching her drink and meeting John’s gaze. “The Pinkertons, now, they reported her and Arthur both killed. It’s official, they got obituaries and everything. There’s even a statement a bunch of boys made on the record about seein’ their bodies together on that mountain. Both of ‘em dead as doornails, half frozen in the snow. Didn’t wanna carry ‘em down because they were on foot and short on men, and it was cold as a witch’s tit.”

The image of Arthur and Rane, shot up and cradling one another in death while he hightailed it away, presented itself to John in rather lurid detail, and he felt a sinking stab of guilt. He cleared his throat, sipping on his beer and eyeing Sadie, trying to put this thought away.

“So what about any of that makes you think she ain’t dead like they say?”

“Well.” Sadie settled back in her chair, grasping her beer in one hand and looking at him. “I been hunting bounties for a good long while now, John, at least since Dutch ran us all off. And like any job, I get competition. Sometimes names, they start rising among the rabble, either because they’re real good at what they’re doin’ or they’re real bad at it, usually. I started hearin’ about a woman huntin’ up outlaws about six months ago, and I was interested because there ain’t many ladies in my line of work, not since Black Belle some decades back.”

John nodded. His heart was still beating rather quickly. “Sure.”

“Well, I did some askin’ around, at first because cash was gettin’ snatched right out from under my nose and I was starting to get kinda pissed. Lots of ‘em in Ambarino and the like, in the more desolate places. The tough ones, in other words.” She sipped her beer, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “According to the street, seems there’s a girl running around taking out men wanted by the law with a sword rather than a gun. That was my first clue, because I ain’t never seen a woman swinging a blade before I met her.”

"Aw hell, Sadie," said John, drinking again and glancing away, his brow furrowed. "That coulda been anybody, ain't like there's just but the one sword in the whole damn world, you know -"

"Oh, quit it with your bullshit." Sadie cast him a reproachful look. "You tellin' me you met just a whole slew of acquaintances over the years that liked to kill fellers with a blade rather than a gun, like it's a thing to do? All of 'em young women, no less? Fuck off with that nonsense."

"All I'm sayin' is that it ain't proof of nothin' on its own."

“Well, it sure ain't, which is why I learned some more.” Sadie sipped her beer again, glancing at John. “You wanna hear what I found out, or you want me to stop? I’m happy to let you go back to your family without -”

“What else did you hear?” John interrupted roughly.

“Alright. Well, I met a man in Saint Denis who told me she chased him down on a contract but let him go at the end because he gave her what she was owed by the bounty. He said she had dark hair and she was riding a black horse, and she was real pretty. So pretty he felt like he was goin’ crazy lookin’ at her, I believe he said, like he was seein' an apparition or somethin' rather than a woman. Now I ain’t too keen on ladies myself but if that ain’t the way a man would describe Rane Roth, I’ll smile and kiss a pig.”

John ran both hands down his face, letting them linger in front of his mouth, staring at her. “Jesus.”

“I asked around a little bit more, and as luck would have it, I happened on a shitfaced-drunk Pinkerton one night in Rhodes who was happy enough to open his gob, and that was the _real_ Golconda. Name of Huxley, real young green feller, seemed a damn sight too soft to be in his line of work. Don’t ask me how I found anything out from _him_ ,” she added grimly.

“I wouldn’t dare.” John was still listening intently, his face still, his shoulders set. “What’d he say, Sadie?”

“That he was there," said Sadie slowly, and paused to drink long on her beer. "That night. Came across her and Arthur with the rest of his outfit while they were chasin' Dutch. He said the whole mountain was covered in blood from where she'd been gutshot, and they thought of puttin' a bullet in her head - mercy, you know, her bein' so close to dead anyways - but the marshal told 'em to hold their fire and let her die slow, on account she was such a pain in their asses of late. Janky bastards," she added, low, and spat onto the floor, her nose wrinkled. "So they left 'er to it and moved on. Left a dying girl in the dirt next to her dead man. If that ain't cruel, I can't say that I know what is."

"How you know he wasn't full of shit and just tryin' to get into your pants, Sadie?"

"Well, I thought of that myself, so I asked him to describe both of 'em to me, for starters, and he did. Real damn well for somebody who'd only seen wanted posters, I might add. Right down to what they were wearin' that day, and if you try to tell me you don't remember all that little shit as well as I do, I'll call you a goddamn liar."

John nodded, biting his lip. He did. Vividly.

"Huxley said that according to what he’d been briefed on, she fell in with some Wapitis after Arthur died. Sort of became a nomad, rambling around and doing things for the tribe, workin' to earn her keep. After a little while she broke off, went off on her own and started taking bounties. Pretty soon she got herself a reputation and really started to bring in the cash, especially out east. She pert set up shop.” She leaned towards John, nudging him gently. “That Pinkerton feller, he said she’s going by Claire Gray if you were to ask her, but the boys in the agency started calling her Blackguard, on account she never shores up anywhere, just stays out there sleeping rough and killing folk and leaving no tracks. Takin' all my good bounties and gettin' to 'em first, I might add.”

John exhaled roughly. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

“That Huxley feller said that she was likely gutshot by Micah or Dutch, not by none of the Pinkertons,” said Sadie, low. “Now if you know Rane like I know her, she’s on the hunt for them, same as we are, not just for her own ass but for Arthur's.”

“I don’t have the slightest doubt.”

Sadie leaned toward him. “I think I know where she is, too. And I think we oughta find her, and end this shit together. All three of us.”

“How the hell you know she’d wanna?”

“You don’t think she’d wanna help us kill the man that murdered Arthur?” Sadie laughed grimly. “She’d see Micah in his grave quicker than she’d blink and you know it. She loved that man better than she loved life.”

“Okay, well how the hell do we find her without spooking her off?”

Sadie laughed, fingering her beer. “Oh, I think I know just how to do that.”


	58. An Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sadie explain to Abigail what's happening abroad

_Made the choice to go away  
_

_Drink the fountain of decay  
_

_Tear a hole exquisite red  
_

_Fuck the rest and stab it dead  
_

_Broken, bruised, forgotten sore  
_

_Too fucked up to care anymore  
_

_Poisoned to my rotten core  
_

_Too fucked up to care anymore._

  * **Nine Inch Nails**



_______________________

Sunset found John Marton and Sadie Adler riding west toward John’s homestead, side by side on horseback, the hooves clopping beneath them and the scree of cicadas and crickets loud all around, just like old times. The light was low, red going towards purple, casting New Haven into grim contrast. Sadie glanced over at John as they trotted along, her face perceptive even in the low glow, and tipped her hat back on her neck, allowing her blond hair to waft out behind her. She was smiling a little.

“Penny for ‘em, Mister Milton.”

“Ah, shit.” John passed a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Just a lot to take in, is all.”

“Which part? Micah or Miss Roth?”

John pondered this, chewing his mouth. “Micah’s bad, because I feel like I’m apt to lose myself and just go on after him, say fuck it and throw it all away,” he said slowly. “I've been looking for him a long while, Sadie, pretty much since . . . well, since Arthur. I’ve felt real . . . real raw about it. But I couldn’t do too much, with Abigail and Jack around. Felt helpless, I guess, and angry that I couldn't do more. Sometimes I worry I wasn't as kind to Abigail and Jack as I shoulda been, because I felt that way.”

Sadie watched him, her hips rocking with her horse’s gait. “And what about Rane?”

John shook his head, his dark hair in his face. He let Arthur’s hat fall back on his neck, exposing his clear forehead, and the long, vivid scar that ran down his face, caught in violent contrast by the setting sunlight. Sadie thought, for the first time since she’d met him, that he looked old and weary indeed. She’d always seen him as a bit sophomoric in ways, a flaky, sometimes doltish young man who had reached adulthood without completing the necessary levels of childhood first, but she didn’t feel that way now, as she eyed his profile. He seemed aged a decade by the past few years; sadder, somehow, and more austere, no longer the sportive, occasionally hotheaded young man he once was.

“Sadie, I’ll tell you a truth that I ain’t never uttered to nobody, ain’t hardly a day gone by that I haven’t thought about her,” he admitted, very low. “I hoped after a couple months she’d leave my mind, but . . . hell, sometimes I don’t know myself no more. I can’t hardly recognize myself. She's never far from my mind, even while I'm asleep. Sometimes I still . . . well.” He sighed, flushing a little. “I believe I been becomin’ a problem to myself, is all.”

“Hell, John.” Sadie reached out and touched his shoulder gently. “Don’t go blamin’ yourself for that.”

“I ought not be thinkin’ on a girl I thought was dead goin’ on three years now, Sadie, not after we spent such a short time together. _Especially_ not as I’m a married man.”

“Well, John, I hate to break it to ya, but people ain’t created perfect.” Sadie was frowning, feeling a little out of sorts. “Nobody can blame ya for how you feel. It is what it is. Even Arthur musta told you that. Shit, I bet he balked like hell about feelin’ for that girl. You boys, the way you were raised up, it just didn't come natural, is all.”

“Yeah, well.” John scoffed, looking at his hands on the reins. “I love Abigail, Sadie, but I wonder sometimes if maybe . . . shit, I dunno . . . maybe I shoulda just tried harder to court her back then. Maybe things might have ended differently if -”

“Now hang on before you start down that way,” said Sadie, suddenly brusque. “That kind of thinking don't do nobody any good, least of all you. Abigail and Jack, they’re what you got now. Rane might be alive and she might not, but either way she ain’t for the likes of you. Think about it, even if she _did_ want ya, Arthur ain't been underground but three years and he loved her damn near to death. What about him? What about Jack? There’s all sorts of trouble with that kind of thinkin’.”

John sighed, rubbing his face. “I know it. I feel foolish."

“Listen here a tick.” Sadie slapped his shoulder, drawing his dark, ashamed gaze to her own. “I want you to be a part of this, John, but I ain’t takin’ you with me if I think you might go all to pieces when - well, _if_ we find her. I like to think you’re a little older and wiser than all that these days. Ain’t ya? Or was I wrong to come lookin’ for you?”

“No, you wasn’t wrong. I shouldn’t have even said nothin’.”

“If we find her, are you gonna mind yourself and act sensible?”

John cast Sadie a slightly affronted look. “Of _course_ I am. Christ, I ain’t _twelve_.”

“Ain’t ya? You weren’t twelve when you clocked Arthur in the mouth after you saw him with her at Shady Belle that time, either, so you’ll forgive me for making sure.”

John scoffed, looking injured. “Fuckin’ hell. That wasn’t quite the same thing, was it?”

“Just - don’t do nothin’ stupid, is all I’m askin’ ya.” Sadie was watching him. “I wanna get that rat motherfucker, John, and I want Rane with us to do it, but I sure as fuck ain’t trying to make this some kind of a penny dreadful in the meantime -”

“Oh, will you _please_ shut the hell up?” John muttered, rolling his eyes. “It’s been three damn years, way you talk you’d think it was last week -”

“Big talk comin’ from the feller who ain’t lost a day thinkin’ about her, by his own tellin’ -”

“Why don’t we quit talkin’ about my pining after Rane and start talkin’ about what we’re gonna tell Abigail, huh? And I sure as fuck hope you don’t care to mention none of what I just told ya to her,” he added, glancing at Sadie. “That’s the last damn thing me and her need right now, is more trouble between us.”

“Well, even though I don’t think Abigail’s as blind to it as you might think, I ain’t gonna open my mouth about none of that shit, no,” said Sadie wryly, snapping the reins and smirking. The light was deepening around them, a fiery indigo now, setting the distant horizon into a blazing silhouette, the low-slung trees and brush wavering in the gentle breeze and the clouds hanging near the sky bleeding red and pink. “What are _you_ gonna say to her, John Marston? You think she’s gonna kindle to this thing?”

John laughed, low. “Of course she ain’t. She’s liable to fight me all the way to the ground over it. Especially if she knows we’re apt to go lookin’ for Rane on top of everything else.”

“You gonna lie?”

“No, I ain’t gonna lie to my wife, Miss Adler.” John pulled a smoke from the pack in his breast pocket and hung it from his lip, jutting his lower jaw a little as he popped a match alight and lit it, the brief ember glow of the flame igniting his features. “I am, however, gonna gild the fuck outta the truth if that’s what it takes to keep her bedded down for this.”

Sadie snorted. “Marston, you ain’t changed as much as you might think.”

“Well, maybe I ain’t, at that,” said John, smirking a little. “Come on. I wanna get back before nightfall.”

  
  


ABIGAIL Roberts was sitting on the steps of the little hacienda when Sadie and John rode into the dooryard, her knees together and her hands clasped on the lap of the dress she wore, a yellow shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She got up at once and made for John, snatching at her skirts, bending and grabbing the lantern that had rested on the stairs beside her. Even in the dim light of the late sunset, John could see the harried, halfway-to-being-pissed expression on her face, and steeled himself for a diatribe as they drew near to the hitching post.

“Hoo-wee, she don’t look too happy with _you_!” Sadie murmured, smirking. John cast her an unsmiling look from horseback.

"You ain't exactly makin' me feel any better, you know -"

“ _John Marston_!” Abigail crowed, holding the lantern high so that it shone directly into John’s face as he dismounted, tying Rachel. He blinked against it, lifting an arm. “Where in the _hell_ have you been all damn evening? You said you’d be back before _nightfall_ -!”

“Well, it’s nightfall, ain’t it? Would ya get that light outta my face, please?”

“It’s _night_ , ya damned idiot, not nightfall! Nightfall means the night's fallin', it ain't called night _-fell_!"

"Okay, well then I'm sorry I ain't back by curfew."

"You oughta be! Who’s that with you?”

Sadie stepped into the lantern light, tipping her hat. “Hello, Abigail.”

Abigail’s angry, exasperated expression seemed to drop away in an instant. She lifted the lantern a little higher.

“Sadie Adler? Good lord, is that _you_?”

“Well it ain’t Lord Tennyson.” Sadie accepted Abigail’s awkward hug, laughing. “Ain’t it good to see ya in one piece, honey.”

“How the hell’d you find us? What are you doin’ here?" Abigail glanced at John, her accusatory expression returning for a moment. "John, you knew about this? And you didn't warn me? The house is a damn mess, I ain't in no place for callers, I coulda at least cleaned up or -!"

"He didn't know 'til this morning, Abigail, and even then I didn't let on all the way it was me," said Sadie quickly, waving a hand. "And I didn't want to come by unannounced, I know all of us from the old days like to keep a low profile anymore."

Abigail nodded, glancing between Sadie and John, clearly trying to decide how much of this diatribe she believed. After a moment she offered Sadie a smile.

"Well, come on inside, I got coffee, or somethin’ a little stronger if you want it.”

“Ma’am, that’d be mighty nice, if your husband ain’t opposed,” said Sadie, smirking up at John. He was standing with his arms folded, frowning down at the dirt, not looking at either of them. He looked to Sadie like nothing so much as a young kid who was about ten seconds away from getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar and receiving the scolding of his life.

“I don’t mind it none,” he said, tipping his hat low and striding hastily past them both towards the little cabin he Abigail and Jack shared some ways off. “Gettin’ cold out here.”

“Oh, Lord, I sure don’t like _that_ look,” Abigail muttered, watching him lope off with a furrowed brow. “I seen it plenty times before.”

Sadie shuffled her boots in the dry dirt, taking her hat in her hands and looking around. Abigail eyed her a trifle suspiciously.

“And I guess whatever I’m about to hear I got you to thank for, huh?”

Sadie cleared her throat, gesturing. “Come on, I wanna see that young’n of yours.”

Jack was indeed a sight for sore eyes. Three years had stretched him right out, from the chubby, rosy-cheeked kid he’d been in ‘99 to the taller, leaner one that rushed into Sadie’s arms as she walked into the cabin. His hair was longer now, had grown coarse and dark as midnight, and Sadie could see the pared jawline and crooked smile he’d inherited from his daddy right off the bat.

“Holy God in heaven, would you take a gander at this kid?” she remarked, sweeping him up into her arms. It wasn’t as easy as it had been three years ago, surely enough, and her back gave a little twinge of protest as she lifted him. “Jack Marston, you’re about ten feet tall, young man! I bet you're riding a grown man's saddle by now, ain't ya?”

“Pa got me my very own pony!” Jack told her merrily. “He even showed me how to ride him a little bit -!”

“Well, we started workin’ on it, sure,” John amended a little tersely, taking a heavy seat at the little wooden table in the center of their cabin. “Horsin’ is a long lesson. Why don’t you go catch some fireflies or somethin’, Jack, so me and your mama can talk to Aunt Sadie?”

"But I thought I wasn't to be out past sundown, Pa?"

"You ain't, but I'm giving you a furlough, so go on."

"What's a furlough?"

"Means permission. Go on, now, I said."

Jack turned to Abigail, looking positively chuffed. “Can I, mama?”

“Oh -” Abigail glanced at John, looking a little reticent, then sighed and flapped a hand. “Yeah, go on, child. Stay close to the farm, don’t you go wanderin’, you hear? And remember what I told you about not strayin' past the fence.”

“Yes, mama!” Jack was on his feet and flying out the door in a flash, the thudding of his footsteps fading as he fled into the late dusk, giggling. Sadie and Abigail watched his retreating form until the screen door banged shut behind him.

“I don’t like him out there past sundown, John, there are wolves and such,” Abigail muttered, drawing a chair back at the table and taking a seat, looking wistfully toward the door. “He’s still so wee, though.”

“Oh, shit, it ain’t like he’s runnin’ off to the woods, he’s right outside,” John said, leaning back. He held a steaming cup of coffee in both his hands, and Arthur’s hat was hung on the back of his chair. It never strayed too far from his side, Sadie suspected. "Wolves don't come down off the mountainside this time of year anyways."

"That boy's gonna be one handsome man one day," Sadie remarked fondly.

"Well, right now we're just tryin' to make sure he gets far enough along to find out." Abigail shifted her weight, her eyes darting between John and Sadie. "Now what's this all about? If this is about another goddamned job you wanna do -”

“No. Sorta. Not exactly. We - well -”

John struggled, glancing at Sadie for help. She leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table and meeting Abigail’s eyes.

“Okay, Abigail,” she said slowly. “I need you to try to keep an even head about this while I tell you. I don’t mean you wouldn’t normally,” she added quickly, holding both hands out as Abigail opened her mouth to retort, “I just mean they might come as a little bit of a surprise. Okay?”

“Go on, I ain't makin' promises I can't keep,” said Abigail suspiciously, eyeing her.

“I found Micah Bell,” said Sadie. "You remember Micah, don't ya?"

Abigail watched her for a long moment, her eyes cold, chewing her mouth, then leaned back, folding her arms, and turned her gaze to John, who was leaned over the table, looking at his clasped hands as if fascinated by them.

“John, you care to tell me what Sadie’s talkin’ about?” she asked in a deceptively light tone.

“Well, she said it,” said John, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “I just found out myself about an hour ago, Abigail, i'm just as surprised as -”

“ _Micah Bell_? You said you was _done_ with all that!”

“Well, it ain’t that simple, just _forgetting_ all about what happened, Abigail! Shit, I knew Arthur since I was eleven damn years old, you really expect me to just put it all away?”

“For the sake of your wife and your son? Yeah, I sure do, John! We been round and round with this, must be a hundred damn times by now, and still here I sit listenin' to you fixing to run off outside the law some more -!”

“Abigail, we wouldn’t even _be_ here if it wasn’t for Arthur! We’d all be _dead_!”

“Yeah, and you’re gonna honor his memory by runnin’ off after the feller that got him killed? You think he’d approve of that?” Abigail was watching John with angry eyes. “You think he’d want you riskin’ your neck for that sack of shit? Just to prove somethin’ to yourself?”

“You know, I don’t rightly know, but I’d sure feel better if I found out, Abigail,” said John roughly, his voice rising a little. "And now that we got the help to do it -!"

"Help to do it? The hell do mean, the help to do it?" said Abigail sharply.

"Rane Roth," Sadie admitted. "I'm pretty sure I found her too."

“Rane Roth?" Abigail looked dismayed. She shot an accusatory gaze towards John. "I thought she died with Arthur all them years ago?”

John hesitated, his face flushing a little, all the piss and vinegar running right out of him. Sadie could have clapped a hand to her forehead. “Well, Sadie reckons she didn’t."

"How you figure that, Sadie Adler?" Abigail said, turning her sharp gaze to Sadie. "Why are you even botherin' with lookin' for her in the first place, is a better question?"

"Abigail, she pulled your ass out of the fire more than once, as I recall, and John's too," Sadie admonished her.

"Yeah, and I been paying for it ever since," Abigail retorted heatedly. "Answer me, how you figure she ain't dead?"

"I heard tell of her huntin' bounties up north a little ways. If we can get her on board, we can give Micah what’s comin’ to him.”

“Which you couldn’t do alone, certainly not.”

"Sure we could," Sadie said. "But it'd be a whole hell of a lot easier and safer if we had her there to help us, Abigail, you know that as well as I do."

Abigail cast John a cold look. "After all the trouble she caused you, I'm surprised you're even entertaining this, John Marston."

John struggled, mouthing silently. “She saved our _lives_ , Abigail, a _bunch_ of times! Hell, I'd have been hung at Sisika if she hadn't -!”

“But that ain’t why you’re itchin’ to rush off with Sadie and find her, is it? Ain't hardly even to do with Micah, is what I think.” Abigail was watching him, her gaze hard and a little hurt. “That torch you carry is still lit, ain’t it? I always thought it might be.”

John sighed, his head rolling on his neck, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Sadie set her coffee mug down, looking at Abigail and clearing her throat pointedly.

“Look, Abigail, this don’t have nothin’ to do with John,” she said slowly. “Micah’s tough as a boiled skunk, you know it as well as I do, and I'm willing to bet it won't be just him by hisself that we're gonna be dealing with. We need somebody else who can fight worth a damn. And she’s got an axe to grind with him same as us,” she added, her voice lowering a little.”Abigail, you know about her and Arthur. How you think she felt after he was gone? You think she bounced right back and made her peace? Because I sure as shit don't. I bet you remember how short that girl's fuse always was.”

“I’m sure I don’t know nor care how she felt, Sadie Adler,” said Abigail with a touch of hauteur.

“Well, I think you _do_ know, because I saw you standin’ in the road weeping for John when you thought he was shot dead on that train job,” said Sadie, low. "Rane lost her man the same way you thought you'd lost yours, and whether you like her or not, that kinda hurt . . . hell, I can tell you from experience, it's the worst kind of feeling," she added, a little brusque. "Now it ain't fair to lose all your humanity just because she pissed you off a couple times before -"

"She didn't _piss me off_ , she run off with my husband and -!"

"It don't _matter_ about her and John!" Sadie interrupted her, suddenly harsh, her eyes hardening. "It don't _matter_! One goddamn measly night? Christ, you wanna start casting stones about that, after how you came into the gang and saw every last one of 'em into you bed with you, Arthur included? 'Scuse me for sayin'."

Abigail flushed scarlet to the roots of her hair. "How _dare_ you say that to me in my own h-?"

"Well, it's _so_ , ain't it? You gonna say all those things about Rane after what she did for you and your family, maybe you oughta shine some of that light on yourself, ma'am."

Abigail lowered her head a little, her brow furrowing, then drank deep on her coffee. John was watching her, leaned back in his chair.

“You know the way they found her, them Pinkertons, don’t ya? John ever tell ya?"

Abigail glowered up at Sadie, looking decidedly less hospitable now. "No, I cannot say that I do."

“She was gutshot by Micah. Blood all over the damn mountainside, they said it looked like a slaughterhouse floor. Them Pinkertons, they found her layin’ beside Arthur’s body, huggin’ him to her, crying and bleeding out. They left her there to die in the cold next to him, ten, fifteen miles from the nearest town. And it seems that she still somehow managed to keep on fighting. You say what you will about her,” Sadie added, a little gruff, “but she deserves some credit for that, if it’s true, and she deserves to have a chance to see that fucker into his grave for what he done to her and to Arthur. That's what I think, and that's what John thinks too, though he ain't gonna say it for fear of angering you anymore.”

Abigail watched Sadie a moment longer, then sighed, shaking her head and burying her face in her hands.

“God damn the pair of you,” she said, muffled. “When are you leavin’?”

“Right away,” said Sadie, glancing at John. “Tonight.”

“Then go,” said Abigail, not looking up. “Send my boy back inside while you’re out there, I can't bear to lose another one of mine.”

John touched her shoulder gently, feeling outlandishly out of sorts. “Abigail -”

“Go, I said,” Abigail snapped, still not looking at him. “Get the hell outta here. Since I can’t stop either of ya and nothin' I say is gonna make a lick of difference, just like usual.”

Sadie, seeing her cue, got up and hitched up her jeans.

“I’ll get him home safe Abigail,” she said softly. “I surely will.”

Abigail said nothing.

"This is the right thing, Abigail," said John quietly.

"GO ON!" Abigail shouted suddenly, glaring at him. "GO ON AND GO!"

John looked at her a moment longer, pained, then he and Sadie strode out of the little cabin and out into the night.


	59. The Grizzlies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadie and John go after Rane

_There are questions I can't ask_   
_Now at last, the worst is over._   
_See the way you hold yourself_   
_Reel against your body's borders._   
_I know that you hate this place_   
_Not a trace of me would argue._   
_Honey, we should run away_   
_Oh someday, our baby and her mama and the damaged love she makes._

_But I don't know what else that I would give_   
_Than try to kiss the skin that crawls from you_   
_Then feel your weight in arms I'd never use._   
_It's the god that heroin prays to._

  * **Hozier**



  
_________________

“So where the hell we goin’?”

Sadie glanced at John from astride her horse, then dug into her saddlebag for a moment. At length she pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, which she hucked at John underhand. John caught it awkwardly, fumbling a little in the dark.

“God dammit, you coulda just handed it to me -”

“Guess your reflexes ain’t what they used to be,” said Sadie, laughing.

“Hell.” John straightened in his saddle, flattening the paper against his chest and glaring at Sadie. “Can’t nothin’ be easy with you, lady, you're worse than Abigail.”

“Oh, just look at it and quit moanin’.”

John pulled a match from his breast pocket and popped it alight with a thumbnail, holding it a few inches before Rachel’s mane. His eyes roved down the aged poster, brows knit.

“And who the hell is Harvey Logan, pray tell? Looks like his mama fell outta the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”

Sadie snorted. “Good God, John Marston, I can see you been outta the game a couple years if you gotta ask me _that_.”

“You wanna make me feel stupid about goin' straight now, do ya? Sure seems helpful.”

“Quit gettin’ all injured about it, Christ.” Sadie was laughing a little as John glared at her from over the matchlight. “He ran with the Wild Bunch, and I surely do hope you know who _that_ is, or Lord help me, there ain’t nothin’ more I can do for ya.”

John waved the match out and gaped at her. “Good grief. Kid Curry. That's Kid fuckin' Curry, ain't it?”

“The very same, sir.”

John scoffed loudly, looking outraged. “Sadie, I came with ya to find Micah Bell, not to rub up rough on Butch goddamned Cassidy -!”

“You ain’t gonna rub up rough on nobody,” said Sadie, shaking her head. “That boy’s been turned loose of Butch’s gang for goin’ on a year now, they don’t have no love for him anymore. But he’s worth a pretty penny, and he’s real well sought after in the business.”

“And you think Rane’s after him, too.”

“Oh, I _know_ she is.” Sadie readjusted herself in her saddle, snatching the poster from John’s hands and stuffing it back into her pocket. “This wasn’t a public reward, John, this was a personal favor from the sheriff of Annesburg. He told me he tasked me with it along with two other folks, and one of ‘em died yesterday morning. He was shot up knee to neck with his throat slit from ear to ear, from what I heard. Sheriff wouldn’t tell me who the third one was, but he said ‘she’ a couple times, and that was pretty much enough for me to draw conclusions on.”

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Jesus, what the hell have I got myself into.”

“Oh, quit. You killed worse men than that Johnny-come-lately in your day.” Sadie glanced at him. “What, you want out now that you know?”

“Nah. Can’t exactly piss off now, can I? You got me good and cornered.” John tipped his hat down a little further. “So where’s he located? You know?”

“Just about. I picked up his trail yesterday, he was headed north of Valentine, up toward the Grizzlies.”

“I sure would've liked to know that before I left the ranch without a coat.”

“Oh, shit, a little bit of snow ain’t gonna kill ya, it’s the spring thaw, for Christ’s sake. Damn, but ain't you gone domestic.” Sadie veered her horse to the west. “This feller is holed up in a little cave up the road a ways, probably waiting for shit to die down back in civilization before he starts showin' his face again. All by his lonesome, from what I can tell.”

“And him alone is plenty enough, from what I hear tell. Papers said that crazy bastard shot nine lawmen dead and busted outta jail more times than I can count on both hands.”

“Well, John, lemme just remind you that we ain’t here to take down Kid Curry, much as I'd love that reward” said Sadie, sounding a little amused. “We’re here to ambush Rane. She’s gonna know where he is same as us, this job was just put out two days back, and I bet she scoped him out same as I did. That third feller was the only damned fool to rush in and try to take him point-blank, and we see how that turned out.”

“What makes you so sure she’s gonna be there tonight?”

“Well, I ain't _sure_ , but way I figure it she’d likely have hung back a little bit after that first dumb fucker bought it,” said Sadie without remorse. “Same way I did. Let ol' Mister Logan settle down so he don't spook so easy. So what we’re gonna do is sit up far away and watch and wait for her to show up.”

"And how do we know she ain't turned up already?"

"I reckon if he's still alive, then she ain't been by yet," said Sadie grimly.

“Goddamn.” John glanced at Sadie, looking impressed. “Woman, I ain't never heard you talk this way before.”

“Well, I guess you ain't the only one that's changed,” said Sadie, smirking at him, and kicked her horse into a canter.

  
  


THE two of them came upon the cave where Logan was hiding out some ten minutes later, and there was no doubt at all right off the bat that they had come to the right place. The man himself was sitting outside of the hollow in front of a brazenly billowing campfire, cross-legged and quite at his ease, his hat sat at his side in the dirt and the carcass of what looked like a rabbit hanging over the spit. There was a roan horse hitched to a nearby tree, unsaddled and untacked, and the man looked not a trifle concerned with anything aside from his supper. Sadie and John stashed the horses in a little copse of pine some ways back and crouched on a snowy cliff overhanging above, looking down on the camp.

“Bold,” John muttered, shaking his head.

“Well, when you’ve been riding with Butch Cassidy a couple years, I imagine you get a little brave,” Sadie admitted, shrugging. "Though I am a little surprised he ain't bein' a _bit_ more quiet about it, havin' a bounty hunter set on him just yesterday . . ."

"Yeah, me too. Comfortable as a tick on a dog's hide, ain't he?"

Sadie cleared out a spot in the snow and sat down, resting her hands on her knees. "So now we wait."

John sat beside her, rubbing his arms through the thin fabric of his shirt. "Hope we ain't out here too long, I'm already freezin' my ass off."

They weren't. It wasn't ten minutes later that Sadie leaned forward, squinting into the darkness beyond the reach of Kid Curry's firelight. She pointed, nudging John.

“Look there, Mister Milton. What'd I tell ya?”

John followed her finger and saw something that made his heart falter in his chest. There was a rider approaching in the snow, slow and unhurried. The horse was black, its fetlocks tangled with snow and its long mane rippling down one side of its muscular neck. The lean figure astride it was hooded, featureless in the darkness, draped in a sheepskin-lined cloak. Logan, too, had noticed his company. He was getting to his feet slowly, his hand resting on his pistol.

“Who goes there?” he shouted.

“Come on,” said Sadie, slapping John’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “Hurry.”

John followed Sadie down the hill, drawing closer to the campfire from behind Logan and taking refuge behind an ancient downed longleaf pine. He didn't seem to notice these new arrivals; he was quite focused on his new acquaintance.

“You lost or somethin’, girl?” Logan was aiming his weapon from the waist, his voice gravelly and low. “You're a far cry from the nearest town and this is perilous country up here, 'specially for a woman. Liable to run into dangerous folk."

“No siree, I'm not lost.” The rider slipped off the horse, still hooded, striding toward the fire. “I think I'm right where I need to be.”

"Well, I guess I ain't sure what you mean by that. Show yourself, stranger. I shoot folks out of hand who don’t have their faces out on display, you oughta know.” Logan cocked his gun. “Go on, now.”

"Oh!" There was a rustling of cloth as the hood was thrown back. "Rude of me. How's that?"

John sucked in a lungful of involuntary air, his heart suddenly pounding. “Shit, Sadie, it _is_ her!”

“I know it is,” said Sadie, very low, her own eyes wide.

It was, indeed. She was striding into the firelight now, clad in a black blouse and a pair of jeans beneath the sheepskin-lined cloak, her ancient leather scabbard still hanging from her belt. She was thin, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes, as if she’d spent many nights either sleepless or drunk, but it was _her_. It was like seeing a ghost.

“Well, I reckon it'll do for the nonce, sure." Logan was still watching her, his mouth drawn down into a sneer, one hand still hovering over his gun. "So you wanna tell me who you are and why it is you're aggravating me during my supper?" He lifted a chin towards her sword. "I don't much abide by weapons at the dinner table, missy."

“Well, I won't be staying long, so don't worry on my account,” said Rane, striding towards him. “I'm looking for a man by the name of Har -”

Logan drew from the hip and fired twice, hideously fast. The crash of the reports was shockingly loud, startling nesting birds from the treetops nearby, making both John and Sadie flinch. Rane’s sword was in her hand in an instant, and the first bullet that was meant for her flew from its blade, throwing hissing sparks into the snow. It struck about four feet from Sadie’s hand, spraying bark and making her gasp. The other ricocheted off into the night air with a sound like breaking glass. Logan froze, gawking at her, his face blanching as the ringing echo of the gunshots faded to a low mutter, sweeping away across the snowy landscape.

" _Whoooa_!" crowed Rane, grinning at him, her sword still held before her. "You got an itchy finger or something?"

"What in the _hell_ -?"

"Ah-ah-ah, no sir," Rane pointed her sword at him, shaking her head slowly as he began to lift his pistol again. She was still smiling, quite unruffled. "You don't dare pull that trigger again, sweetheart. I'm gonna let you have those first two on the house but the next one I have to hook is going into your head, it's just too damn late in the day for that kind of shit. How's that sound?"

"How the fuck did you _do_ that, lady?" Logan gasped at her, flustered.

"Same way you get to Carnegie Hall." Rane gestured with her sword. "Put that gun away and sit down, you're making me nervous."

She certainly didn't look nervous, but Logan obliged anyway, stowing his weapon and slowly lowering himself down onto the log beside his fire. Rane twirled her sword once around her wrist, lifting her eyebrows at him.

"If I put this away, are you gonna be cool?"

Logan nodded, watching her uneasily. Sadie and John remained where they were, hunkered down, watching all this behind the downed tree, their breath puffing out in front of their faces in white clouds.

"You sure? Because this is really killing my buzz and Courvoisier ain't exactly peanuts."

Logan nodded again. Rane sheathed her sword with a clang, satisfied, then pulled a flask from her jeans pocket and drank long on it before stowing it away again, wiping at her mouth with one bare wrist, taking a seat opposite him in the snow and sweeping the filthy, frayed hem of her cloak beneath her as she did.

"So based on the fact that you tried to murder me just there, I assume that you've already arrived there on your own," she said, digging into her jeans pocket with one hand, "but for the sake of transparency my name is Claire Gray and I'm a bounty hunter."

"That your real name?" Logan asked her skeptically. "You don't look like a Claire to me, lady."

Rane ignored this. She was still digging in her pocket, her tongue stuck between her teeth, and a moment later produced a heavily folded sheet of parchment which she smoothed out against her chest and then held up, eyes cutting from the poster to Logan and back again. After a moment she lowered it, stuffing it back into her pocket.

"So it would appear that you're Harvey Logan, otherwise known as . . . " Rane cast about, smirking. "What was it, Szechuan Bob or Kung Pow Pete or some fucking thing like that -?"

"It's CURRY, you damn bitch, KID CURRY!" Logan snapped, looking highly affronted.

" _That's_ the one. I was in China when I should have been in Thailand, I guess." Rane pulled her flask again, took a swig and replaced it, eyeing him wryly as she did, a little smile playing about her lips. "Why the fuck do they call you that, anyway? Are you like Cassidy's personal chef or something? Just . . . out of morbid curiosity."

"You know what else they call me?" Logan snarled, his face red.

"No, but I'm sure whatever it is, it's very - _hic_ \- very sinister and intimidating," said Rane, waving a hand. "Let's get down to it. As I'm sure you're aware, you've got a big, fat, tasty bounty on your head from all the rustling and shooting and whoring and all other manner of Dionysian monkeyshines you've been getting up to, and they're willing to pay for you warm or cold. It doesn't much matter to me which it is. So are you going to come with me nice-like or -?"

"You take me in and Butch'll be after your scrawny ass so fast it'll make your head spin, cunt."

Rane spread her arms expansively, wavering a little. "Hey, that works for me. He's worth even more than you are, Szechuan, I'm happy to march his happy ass downtown right along with -"

Logan tried again, leaping to his feet, his gun flying up, and another shot crashed around them in the snowy landscape. Rane was faster; her sword was out in a heartbeat and with a quick motion, from sheath to hanging over her shoulder, the bullet was deflected. This time it took Logan in the forehead, just above his left eyebrow.

"I _told_ you it was too late for that shit," said Rane, shaking her head and watching him unsmilingly.

Logan gaped at her for a moment, blood running down the side of his face, then he crumpled onto the ground, the pistol clattering from his hand. Rane sighed, getting laboriously to her feet, brushing the snow off her ass.

"Cold it is," she muttered, and then without looking around she lifted her voice and pointed her sword to her right, directly toward the log where Sadie and John were hiding. "Come on out. Both of you. And gimme your hands too, or I'm gonna hit you where you live.”

John glanced at Sadie, alarmed.

“Better you come out than I have to come over there and find you,” said Rane grimly, running her sword through a wad of her cloak and frowning down at it, her hair hanging in her face. “I’m not in a very good mood right now.”

John and Sadie acquiesced, rising slowly, palms held out before them. Rane turned toward them at last, starting over, her sword held loosely in one hand, but at the sight of the two of them she stopped dead, her eyes springing wide.

"Hello, Rane," said John quietly. "Been a while."


	60. A Discussion of Dismal Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, John and Sadie reunite, discussing the situations that have plagued each of them in the years prior

_Hard times is here and everywhere you go_

_Times are harder than they ever been before_

_You know that people, they all a’driftin' from door to door_

_Can't find no heaven, I don't care where they go_

_People, if I ever can get up off of this old hard killin' floor_

_Lord, I'll never get down this low no more._

  * **Skip James**



  
__________________________  
  


For something like ten seconds, Rane Roth simply gaped at Sadie Adler and John Marston, her mouth hanging slightly open, the wind teasing the ends of her hair across her forehead, her dark brows knitted. Not one of them moved or spoke, and the only sound was the crackle of the late Kid Curry’s campfire and the whistle of the cold wind through the pine boughs around them.

After a moment Rane sheathed her sword, straightening, her eyes still flicking between Sadie and John, the firelight casting her face into sharp resolution. She was as startlingly beautiful as John remembered, but she looked . . . weathered, somehow. Aged. The angles of her cheekbones were far sharper now, and her eyes had lost some of their luster, too, like cold embers after a fire.

“You the one who’s been stealin’ all my bounties?” said Sadie, gesturing at her and smirking.

Rane snorted in spite of herself. “ _Your_ bounties? You mean _my_ bounties?”

John strode abruptly forward, brushing past Sadie, and without another word he put his arms around Rane and drew her to his chest tightly. She stiffened against his touch, as if she wasn’t used to the nearness of another human, but he barely noticed; the smell of her hair, terribly familiar, and the warmth of her skin against his was robust and expressive and _alive_ , and he laughed roughly, resting his cheek against her forehead, his heart beating hard.

“You goddamned idiot, we all thought you were dead all this time.”

Rane drew away, looking up at him with frank incredulity. “What the hell are you guys doing all the way out here?”

“Lookin’ for you, mostly.”

John was struggling to not embrace her again. Now that the initial shock of seeing her again had started to fade, he was shocked at the flood of freshly reawakened emotion that was rushing through him at the sight of her, as if three weeks had passed rather than three years. It was like some hidden wound he had not even been fully aware of had been lanced to bleed fresh inside him.

Rane’s eyes cut over to Sadie, a little suspicious. “And why would you be looking for me?”

“Because we got things to discuss. And you don’t let any grass grow beneath your feet these days, it seems.” Sadie shook her head. “Come talk to us, Rane. Please. It took a long time for me to find ya. Lotta money lost, too, I don’t mind saying,” she added, smirking.

Rane looked between them for a moment, then sighed.

“Alright, well, I have to lug this guy back to Valentine anyways, you guys feel like grabbing a drink? Catch up? I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

“Sounds good,” said Sadie at once. “John, you feel up for it? Abigail expectin’ you back?” She added pointedly, eyeing him.

“No, no, that’s fine,” said John, making brief eye contact with Sadie as he strode past her. “I’ll get the horses.”

“You sure?” Sadie turned and watched his departing form when he didn’t answer, her brow furrowed. “Hey! You sure, John?”

John lifted a thumbs-up at his side, not looking back as he strode away. Sadie turned to Rane, who was also watching him walk away, a slightly disquieted expression on her face.

“Girl, you look like shit. How’ve you been living?”

“Rough,” Rane admitted, glancing over her shoulder and whistling between her fingers. “I’m a strictly outdoor cat these days.”

“That Eli?” Sadie studied the black stallion as he trotted over to Rane, tossing his head.

“The one and only. I wouldn’t sell this kid to Solomon himself, he’s a keeper.” Rane slapped Eli’s hindquarters amiably. He whickered, his breath shooting out of his nostrils in white puffs. “Ain’t ya, you cocky bastard, you? Big handsome son of a bitch.”

Sadie stuffed her hands into her pockets. “We got a lot to talk about, Rane. I just feel like I ought to warn you.”

Rane stopped stroking Eli’s withers and glanced at Sadie over her shoulder. “We do?”

“Yeah. ‘Fraid so.”

Rane eyed her a moment speculatively, then jerked her head after John. “Is it about him?”

Sadie glanced toward the mountain, where John was now striding back down toward them, leading their horses, skidding a little in the snow.

“Yes and no. Not here, Rane,” she added as Rane opened her mouth to inquire further. “Let’s save all this long talk for the saloon. Okay?”

Rane pursed her lips, then shrugged and nodded, turning back to Eli. “If you say so. Do me a favor and help me get this big smelly asshole onto my horse, will you?”

“You can’t magic him up there yourself?” Sadie asked her dryly as Rane made for Kid Curry’s corpse. Rane glanced over her shoulder at Sadie, her expression wry in the firelight.

“Let’s save that one for beers too, darling.”

  
  


THE Valentine saloon was as crowded and hectic as it had been when John and Sadie had left it some time before, filled to the brim now with rowdy ranchers in hectic good cheer. The exuberance of a bountiful cattle season was going to linger for weeks, and for good reason, but they were nevertheless none too pleased to see the joint so lively this evening.

“Sure are a lot of people here,” Rane muttered, glancing around.

“So what?” said John.

“So I’ve got a dead celebrity on my horse out there and Pinkertons and MACUSA bird-dogging me in four states. I try to stay out of this place if it’s packed to the gills like this.”

“Listen to you, chompin’ your bit like a nervous jenny.” Sadie was brushing off her tunic, quite at her ease. “None of these boys give a rat’s ass about you, they’re just happy their cattle are sellin’ so dear. Most of ‘em probably couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with a hole in the toe and directions on the heel, they’re so knee-walkin’ drunk. You’re fine.”

Rane sighed, sounding resigned. “Fine. Sit down, I’ll be right back.”

She was striding off through the crowd before John or Sadie could protest further, They sat down at the neatest vacant table, both watching her leering over the bar, one knee cocked and her long braided hair hanging down her back. The barkeep clearly recognized her; he reached out and took one of her hands in both of his own, planting a kiss on it and laughing with obvious delight. Sadie eyed John, leaning back a little in her chair.

“Hey you.”

“Hey yourself.” John turned back to her, mouthing a smoke from his pack and lighting it. “I bet you’re about to ask me how I’m feelin’ about all this now that she’s here, ain’t ya?”

“You caught me.”

John drew deep on the cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke before answering. “Sadie, it’s been a lotta years between then and now. I’m fine. I ain’t all twisted up inside anymore like I was.”

“Oh, ain’t ya? I heard somethin’ different on the ride up to Ambarino.” Sadie was eyeing him skeptically. “Time passing don’t mean shit, John. I haven’t seen Jake in a coon’s age and I still love him just as dear as I did when we first met. I only ask because I worry about you.”

“Worry about _what_? Jesus Christ, here we fuckin’ go again, just like before -!”

“Mostly that I made a mistake, bringin’ you two back around each other. I don’t wanna see you up-end your life over it, is all, not when you’re doin’ so well.”

“I’m a married man,” said John bluntly, and when Sadie opened her mouth he held up a hand. “ _Quit_ , Sadie. Just _quit_. That’s got nothing to do with why we’re here.”

Sadie sighed, rolling up her sleeves. “Alright, alright, sorry. I’m just worried, is all.”

“Well, worry about yourself for a change instead of me,” said John, a little crossly.

Rane had appeared at the table again. now balancing three glasses and a heavy pitcher full of an ale so dark it was almost black. These she deposited onto the tabletop before pulling out a chair.

“What the hell is it?” said John, eyeing the beer dubiously. “Molasses?”

“So, my boy Ephraim over there behind the bar happens to be a very accomplished brewmaster,” said Rane, pouring glasses and sliding them over to Sadie and John. “This is one of those secret menu sorts of things, it’s a German porter he makes out of persimmons in his shed out back, and when I tell you it’s better than sex, I’m not exaggerating.” She lifted her glass before drinking long. “ _L’chaim_.”

“God _damn_!” John remarked, looking at the glass in his hand with something like wonder. “That _is_ pretty damn good!”

“Told ya.” Rane sketched a little chef’s kiss. “Apparently he spent about six months in Düsseldorf working in some fancy distillery. Seems to me like he must have learned a thing or two.”

“You been spendin’ a lot of time in here, have you?” Sadie asked, eyeing Rane shrewdly over the rim of her glass. “You know what they say about gettin’ neighborly with the barkeep.”

Rane finished off half her beer in a go and topped it off, smirking a little. “Well, if we’re being honest, I can’t remember the last time I went a full twenty-four sober, Sadie. Which suits me just fine.” She wiped at her mouth, her smile fading. “Keeps the demons tucked in, doesn’t it?”

This statement hung between the three of them, and for a moment the subject of Arthur Morgan was very near, practically begging to be addressed. John cleared his throat before she could say any more. He didn’t have quite enough persimmon porter in his belly just yet.

“So Kid Curry, huh?”

Rane nodded, chewing her lip, clearly kindling to this change of subject. “Friend of yours?”

“No, but I sure have heard plenty about him. I wouldn’t even look cross-eyed at anybody associated with Butch Cassidy, myself, those are some big fish.”

A broad grin lit Rane’s mouth at this. It was a lopsided, rather devil-may-care smile, turning the corners of her eyes up and making her suddenly and shockingly beautiful. In that moment the pall of bleak desolation that seemed to be draped over her was whisked away, and she was the blithe, sarcastic young woman John had known three years ago, not yet weighted by the tribulations that followed.

“Would you look at that? John Marston, the storied desperado of yesteryear, hedging his goddamned bets. If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I’d never have believed it.” She eyed him merrily. “Butch Cassidy hoofed it for Argentina when he fell out with Logan, so I think I’m safe on that front. Shame, he’s probably worth a big ticket these days,” she added, sipping her beer and looking a little disappointed. “Sadie, were you gunning for Logan too? Was that how you knew I was coming?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Sadie remarked, smiling herself. “Sheriff Longfellow sorta dropped some hints that you were on the payroll. You know how he is, with that ten-gallon mouth of his.”

“Yeah, it’s getting him to shut up that’s the trick.” Rane sighed, rubbing her forehead. “So what is it you guys want? I don’t exactly get the feeling you just missed my company.”

“Hang on, first of all I wanna know where you been all these years,” John asked her frankly.

Rane shrugged. “Shit, I dunno. Here and there, I guess. I worked for the Wapiti for a little while, but that started feeling a little too domestic so I went off on my own and started taking bounties. Never really put roots down after that.” She downed the rest of her beer in one and refilled it with gusto. “Also stayed pretty tanked for most of it, as you guys can probably tell.”

"Why the hell bounty hunting?" John asked her frankly.

"Well, it was that or the nunnery, and cassock makes my ass look fat." Rane drank deep.

“And you got Pinkertons after you?” asked Sadie.

Rane belched. “In spades. Hence the not putting roots down part.”

“Hell, you coulda come lookin’ for one of us, at least so we’d have known you weren’t dead,” said John, a trifle reproachfully.

Rane looked down at her beer, more than a little chagrined by this. “I could have, yeah,” she said, her voice dropping. “Being alone seemed easier. I haven’t exactly been in the greatest headspace these last few years, John.”

A silence fell between them as the bar patrons around them continued their boisterous revelries. The abrupt heaviness that had befallen their conversation seemed at odds with the cheerful laughter and rattling piano.

“What happened to y’all that night?” John asked her, seeming to force the question out almost against his will. “After Arthur made me leave?”

Rane didn’t answer right away. She wasn’t looking at John; her eyes were still on her beer, her long hair coming free of the braid and hanging in her face in strings. Her brows were knit, her mouth very thin.

“I figured we would end up here before the night was done,” she said at last, and threw back her drink. It was her third one, and when she spoke again there was a definite touch of booze in her voice now. She looked up at John, meeting his gaze. “Micah flanked us, he shot a hole in me big enough to put your fist in, the fucking asshole. It was pretty much just him against . . .”

She paused, blinking, pursing her lips before going on.

“. . . him against Arthur after that. And Arthur was . . . he wasn’t doing well by then.” She shook her head, an expression of sudden, startling vitriol passing across her face, turning her almost lupine. “Micah just beat the everloving _Christ_ out of him, man. Just . . . _whaled_ on him. And I couldn’t do jack fucking shit about it, because he broke my wand and I was bleeding out in the snow during all this. Two seconds, that’s all I would have needed. Just to turn around and see him before he blew a hole through me, and then maybe things would have been different.”

Rane snatched up the pitcher and poured herself another glass, her hand shaking a little against the handle now. Sadie, watching her with a slightly horrified expression, drank deep on her own beer.

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” said John quietly, looking at her. “You can’t think that way.”

Rane ignored this, slamming the pitcher back down and swallowing a mouthful before pressing on. 

“Dutch showed up at the end of it.”

“ _Dutch_?” said Sadie, low. “What’d he do?”

Rane scoffed. “What did he _do_? He just stood there and WATCHED!”

Her voice suddenly rose to nearly a shout on the last word, and she slammed the flat of her hand onto the table loudly. A few nearby patrons glanced over at her. Both Sadie and John jumped. Rane sighed roughly, glancing around her a little self-consciously, then cleared her throat and straightened, looking at her hands.

“Sorry.” She lifted her beer and drank heartily. “He didn't say a single word. Just . . . stood there. He was touring the fucking solar system by then, it was like the engine was running but there was nobody behind the wheel. Anyways, then the both of them took off, I think. I was pretty out of it by then. Eli showed up and I got onto his back. He took me to a doctor, the doctor stitched me up, I ran away in the night and went to the Wapiti. They kept me with them until I was able to walk again, some two or three weeks later, I guess. And I stayed on with them, doing stuff they asked. To say thank you, y'know.” She drank her beer, glaring at Sadie and John. “Then I fucked off. Which brings us to this week's episode.”

Sadie and John were watching her, both their faces long with dismay. Sadie cleared her throat.

“Okay,” she said, and shifted her weight, looking uncomfortable. “Okay, well . . . well, Rane, we got somethin’ to tell you.”

“Which one is it?”

Sadie fell silent, her brows knitted. “Huh?”

Rane drank long on her beer, leaving only a scrim at the bottom of the glass. “Is it Dutch or Micah? Which one?”

“It’s Micah,” said John, meeting her eyes. “Sadie thinks she knows where he is.”

Rane chewed her mouth, looking between him and Sadie for a long few moments, her eyes bright and acute beneath her brows, running her fingers around the rim of her glass.

“You’ve been lookin’ for him too,” said John shrewdly, eyeing her. “Ain’t you?”

“Without much luck,” said Rane softly, shaking her head. She was sitting there as still as a predator preparing to strike, and John cared for her expression not at all. He had seen it before. “He's a slippery son of a bitch. Both of them are."

Sadie leaned forward, meeting Rane’s eyes. “Rane, we wanna go after him. Us three, together. That's why we came after you.”

"To put the band back together?" Rane snorted, shaking her head. "Is he nearby?"

"I dunno. I'm not sure yet, but I know where we can start lookin'. Cleet turned up in Strawberry, southwest of here. Micah won't be far behind him."

Rane leaned back in her chair, running both hands down her face and staring off into the bar. "When do we leave?"

Sadie and John exchanged a glance. "Tomorrow," said Sadie. "Can you ride with us tomorrow, John?"

"How come you keep askin' me that like I gotta get permission from my mama first? _Yes_ , goddammit, I can ride with ya tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Rane tossed back the rest of her beer, getting to her feet. "Well if it's gonna be tomorrow, I hope you guys won't find it too unseemly if I hit the sack, I'm drunk and worn out from chasing Logan across the country and tomorrow I'm going to have to listen to the Sheriff talk my ear off for half an hour when I turn him in -"

"Come out to Pronghorn Ranch, stay with us. Both of ya," John added, glancing at Sadie. "Mister Geddes won't mine, he's a nice enough man. I expect he'd put you both up in the house for a couple bucks if I vouched for ya."

Rane snorted, casting him a wry smile. "I heard Sadie talking about Abigail earlier, John. I bet she'd have some choice words for you if she knew you were inviting me over right now."

"She ain't gonna say nothing about it."

"No, she won't, because I'm gonna buy a room here," Rane agreed. "How about we meet at your ranch tomorrow morning, John? Try to keep my presence to a minimum."

"Abigail don't think that low of you, Rane," said John, looking a little abashed. "Christ, she knows you saved our lives more times than I can count on one hand."

"Now, that ain't exactly true," said Sadie pointedly. "Rane, you ain't gonna get a warm welcome, I think it suffices to say."

"I'd be surprised if I did."

John rolled his eyes. "You know where it is, I take it?"

"I know where Pronghorn is, yeah," said Rane, smirking. "That's where you're holed up these days, huh? Holy shit, you've gone full-on domestic, John Marston."

Sadie snorted, striding away. "I said the same thing. Get some rest."

"If I show up to collect you tomorrow, I'm not going to get my eyes clawed out, right?" Rane asked John, smirking a little. He shook his head, smiling.

"No, you ain't." He grasped her hand in his own, and Rane allowed him to hold it for a moment before pulling away. This was getting too close as it was. "We'll be ready for you. Dawn or nearish?"

"You farmer boys, always up with the sun," said Rane, turning from him a little briskly as she started away. "I'll see you then. 'Night."

"Hey, hang on, Rane, there's one more thing."

She stopped, turning. John drew close to her, digging in his satchel, meeting her eyes.

"I got somethin' I think you should have." He produced a little leather-bound book, handing it to her. She took it, bewildered. "I had this a long time but I think it oughta live with you, think he'd want that."

"What is it?" Rane frowned down at the little book curiously. It was ancient and worn, the surface scuffed and scratched up, as if it had traveled far and been dearly loved in some other lifetime.

"It belonged to Arthur. He kept a sort of diary, always had since I was a kid."

Rane looked at him sharply, an expression of surprised hurt crossing his face. "This was _Arthur's_?"

John nodded. He hesitated, then placed a hand on her shoulder, offering her a wan little smile. "It's good to see you again, Rane. Damn good."

With this he turned and loped off towards the door, shoving between the rowdy bar patrons. Rane watched him go, her brow furrowed, then looked down at the little journal in her hands.


	61. Arthur's Journal

_Did they get you to trade y_ _our heroes for ghosts?_   
_Hot ashes for trees?_   
_Hot air for a cool breeze?_   
_Cold comfort for change?_   
_Did you exchange a_ _walk-on part in the war f_ _or a lead role in a cage?_

_How I wish, how I wish you were here_   
_We're just two lost souls s_ _wimming in a fish bowl_   
_Year after year_

_Running over the same old ground, w_ _hat have we found?_

_The same old fears_

_Wish you were here._

**\- Pink Floyd**

______________________

That night, as she sat cross-legged and rigid in the hard, tacky little bed in one of the rooms of the saloon, the sounds of faint roughhousing and piano music still faintly audible downstairs, Rane Roth opened Arthur's journal for the first time.

A good thirty minutes passed as she thumbed through it, starting at the very beginning and turning each page with a delicacy that bordered on reverence, her face very still and focused. It started with his journey through Ambarino, some four years prior, after the job at Blackwater had forced him and the rest of Dutch's old gang to flee. His handwriting - something she had never seen before, had never even given a thought to - was lovely, lilting and elegant, detailing the gang's comings and goings, their bereavements and triumphs, their losses and gains as they migrated across the country. And most astonishingly of all, these entries were accompanied by drawings, amazingly detailed drawings of people and places and animals and plants. She had never known, never even _suspected_ that Arthur had possessed such talent, and he had never told her, never even hinted at it. The thought made her terribly sad, somehow. It was like she had missed out on an entire chapter of him. Just another thing that had been robbed of her when he had died, something the years they could have spent together ahead might have revealed in the fullness of time.

Rane turned a page, smiling a little, having just read a rather sardonic retelling of the gang's erstwhile habitation of Clemens Point, and suddenly - shockingly - she was looking at her own face. It was an incredibly accurate sketch, done with obvious, perhaps surreptitious haste but detailed nonetheless, showing her profile, her hair slung over one shoulder, laughing at something. Next to this was a drawing of her sword, accompanied by a half-assed rendition of the Tengwar inscription of her own name that had been carved into its blade when it was forged.

Rane stared at this for a long moment, her heartbeat quickening a little, realizing slowly that she might now be about to read things about herself, perhaps about she and Arthur's relationship. This idea was so large and frightening, so _dangerous_ , that she almost stopped right there. To keep reading was to tear open that wound inside her and bleed fresh. And there was no booze in this little room to numb it away. For a second or two she considered closing the little journal. Maybe throwing it across the room for good measure.

The voice of her father, chiding and amused, sprang to life in her mind for the first time in ages: _Don't be a chickenshit, Rane. I didn't raise up a chickenshit._

So she read.

**_Today I have done something foolish (well, more foolish than usual I mean!). That woman that I helped away from the Pinkertons is becoming a thorn in my side. I brought her along with me to rob Braithwaite horses to help our ledger but on the way back, we holed up in a cave and against my better ~~judgm~~ judgment we made a stitch. I am torn how to feel about her or this, due to MARSTON who is causing me trouble as usual! He is sweet on her and if he knows I made love to her he will be MAD AS HELL. Even so I have never felt this way for a woman (not even MARY). _** **_She is a good fighter so I know Dutch will want to keep her. I think that I have never met a ~~beau~~ prettier girl. SO strange though! She uses not a gun but a SWORD and a WAND which can make strange things happen. I have not yet decided if she's just CRAZY!_ **

Rane turned the page, noting the thumbprints on the edges of the parchment where Arthur had turned them once himself. Gun oil, it looked like. Maybe he'd cleaned his revolvers and then sat down to write out an entry some night, who could say? Christ, this was awful. Her breath was hitching a little.

**_Spent the night tied up in Colm O'Driscoll's camp after DUTCH made another bad decision! Why can't he keep us out of trouble? Somehow I managed to get shot bad in the shoulder and I did not expect to see daylight again, but Rane got us away. _** **_And I have gone and done something VERY foolish and finally TOLD her I am in love with her. She ran quick as a jackrabbit when she heard that and now I'm feeling very unhappy. No wonder! I am an ugly old bastard and she is too lovely for the likes of me. God damn you, Arthur Morgan! You should have kept your idiot mouth closed for once!_ **

Another page past this and Rane was looking at an incredibly rendered sketch of Hostas as seen from the window where she and Arthur had spent the night against their will on Guarma. Beneath this, hasty and without details, was another drawing of her, this time lying on one side and facing away, her hair pooled beneath her and the slim dip of her waist covered with a thin sheet. An image presented itself to Rane with hideous, heartwrenching clarity; Arthur, next to her in bed, watching her sleep and sketching her in the little Elven bed they had shared. For a moment he was closer to her than he had been since he died, and that was when the tears began to fall from her eyes at last.

**_We are holed up in a strange place. A shipwreck, a bank robbery and now this! WHAT have I got myself into? It's a good thing John wasn't with us because he would have surely DROWNED._ **

Rane snorted at this in spite of herself. Arthur never lost an opportunity to rail John Marston about his swimming skills, even when the man wasn't around.

**_We lost Hosea and young Lenny in Saint Denis. Seems to me the Pinkertons already KNEW we would be at that bank and that makes me damn ~~suspi~~ uneasy. I can hardly believe Hosea is really gone. I have known him since I was a young man and he was always good to me. TWELVE YEARS! Seems we just cannot stay out of trouble lately._ **

**_Met with a strange fellow called LEEM DOOR (?) who took in me and Rane and gave us food and drink (and I am DRUNK!). Still not sure if I trust him though. We spent the night here together and talked and enjoyed each other. Even though I worry for Dutch and Bill and I am sad about Lenny and Hosea, I feel happier than I have ever been. I still barely believe that she could love a man like me and that I could still love somebody back as much as I -_ **

Rane dropped the journal onto the bed for a moment and covered her face with both hands, moaning low in her throat. For a few seconds she remained that way, tears running between her fingers, hiccuping, willing herself to harden her heart and keep reading. At last she straightened, sighing roughly and wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hand, and continued.

_**I still barely believe that she could love a man like me and that I could still love somebody back as much as I love her. Feels like a dream sometimes. Tonight I had to tell her I was sick and dying and it was the hardest thing I believe I have ever had to say to somebody. I never shed a tear for a woman before but I sure did tonight. Feels as if my heart is broken right in two. If only things were different, and we were not so tangled up in this way!** _

The next two pages were full of sketches, one of Bill Williamson and Javier Escuella sitting beside a bonfire, another of some sort of tropical bird on the wing, still another of what Rane thought might be the view from the deck of the ship they had departed Guarma aboard. And once again, Rane was looking at her own face rendered by Arthur's hand, this time lying in what was almost certainly the cot she had occupied after Limdur had put his sword through her chest, her face penciled with meticulous detail right down to the dark turn of her thick brows and the lines at the corners of her mouth. She could picture, with haunting clarity, Arthur Morgan sitting slumped in the little chair that had occupied that room, journal resting on his knee, sketching, eyes cutting up to her as she lay there insensible. Even while she was unconscious he hadn't left her side. It was another knife through her heart, and a part of her - not a small part, either - cursed John for dropping this damned thing into her lap in the first place.

**_Things with Dutch are worse than ever. Seems he has changed and not for the better. He is acting so odd. Talking all manner of nonsense and making more foolish decisions. TWICE he has put Rane on the razor's edge and both times it burned me up. He sent her after Javier against two dozen ARMED men all alone. Lucky for us she had no trouble at all. Watching her use that sword is REALLY SOMETHING. So fast you can barely even see it! She came real close to meeting her maker on the beach. That Leem-Door feller from Hostess (?) put a sword right through her. I have never felt better about killing a man dead! Lucky for her (and me) a doc aboard our ship patched her up._** **_We made it back to dry land after Guarma and if I never see another boat as long as I live it will be TOO SOON. I guess that I am no sea dog._ **

**_Some nasty fellers are after Rane and tonight they caught us in the open. She killed one and knocked the other two out, but not before I was CURSED. Felt awfully strange, warm and empty and sort of nice. I wish old skeptical Hosea was still around so I could tell him about THIS!_ **

Rane snorted laughter through her tears at this, shaking her head. "Arthur Morgan, only you would get your memory wiped by an auror and then write in your fucking diary about how cool it felt. Why am I not surprised? Why am I not even surprised?"

**_Ran into Mary Linton of all people as we were riding from Saint Denis on a couple of stolen horses tonight. Rane did NOT seem pleased to meet her. She is far too ~~temperm~~ headstrong sometimes and it doesn't take much to get her cussed (and when she gets mad she gets REAL MAD!) I have never felt so embarrassed. Mary said to me "I HOPE SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE IS GETTING HERSELF INTO" and although I pretended it didn't that made me feel real bad. (She would know better than anybody after all!)_ **

**_As I write this I am laying beside Rane at Shady Belle and she is not so much asleep as PAST OUT (drank me clean under the table this evening). I was hoping that the rest of us were holed up here but it seems they must have moved on after the bank job went sour. Tomorrow I reckon that we will need to go looking for them. I hope to hell they are all okay._**

**_I proposed tonight right here in this bed and she said YES. A part of me feels foolish because it has been a very short time and Rane was drunk as Cooter Brown. I guess that we will just have to see. Somehow it suddenly feels like I am right where I belong. ♡_ **

Rane stared at the little heart that Arthur had sketched at the end of this entry for a long moment, feeling strangely aghast by it. Something about it seemed to summarize the whole batshit thing. She'd turned up out of nowhere, quite literally, and somehow gotten tangled up in the lives of these strangers, and one of them . . . one of them had gotten tangled up enough to unironically say something like _that_. That Rane Roth, the reckless, fatalistic shitshow of a woman she had become in the past decade of her life, was someone worthy of that sort of accolade? That she could make a man who had spent his entire life on the fringes of society feel like he _belonged_ someplace?

She dug into her jeans pocket, suddenly a little frantic, and pulling out her flask popped open the cap and polished off what remained of her cognac, sucking her teeth at the bitterness and coughing. She sat there for a moment, relishing the warmth that bloomed in her chest, then turned the page. The sounds of rowdy bar patrons downstairs was beginning to fade away at last. It must have been close to two in the morning.

A drawing of Dutch Van Der Linde, so accurate it could have been a photograph, capturing even the handsome lilt of his posture and the cavalier glint of his gaze. Another of Micah Bell, glaring off into the distance, with his name scribbled just beneath and underlined twice, under which Arthur had written "A REAL JACKASS" in all capitals. Two tacked horses tied to a hitching post, one suspiciously reminiscent of Old Boy. Lagras. Beaver Hollow. And then . . .

Rane breathed a long, low sigh, her eyes skating over the page before her. The last drawing in Arthur's journal was an almost full-page sketch of Arthur himself, clearly looking into the little round shaving mirror he'd used to keep near his cot. He had captured himself to the life, and for a moment Rane simply stared at it, the tears rolling down her cheeks with renewed fervor now, her mouth screwed up. His hair was slicked back from his angular temples, his face freshly shaved and a gentle, lopsided little smile on his face. It wasn't a photograph, but it was the next best thing. Rane knew at once when he'd drawn it, too; he had been left at Beaver Hollow while she and Sadie had gone to rescue John from Sisika, and she would have bet her life that he had done it then, perhaps sitting on his bunk and glancing into that mirror for reference. He looked fantastically handsome, healthy and happy, and she realized with a jolt that she had nearly forgotten what he looked like, so many years had gone by. How could she have misremembered the way his eyes turned up when he smiled, or that little scar on his chin, or the mole on his right cheek, or those eyes, those eyes that seemed to refract every whim of his soul, sometimes against his wishes? In that moment he was close enough to touch, and a sob racked her body, mollified not at all by the liquor in her belly.

There were words written on the opposite page, and after Rane had looked at Arthur's face long enough to sate her immediate appetites, she turned her eyes there. At the top, writ large, was her own name, underlined twice and gone over several times in pencil.

_** RANE ROTH ** _

_**This next part is especially for you. If you are reading this I am likely already gone. This ain't for nobody else. So if you are reading this Marston, FUCK OFF!** _

Rane laughed, choked, still crying, and read on.

**_I drew MYSELF (even though I am ugly) in case you wanted one more good look at me! (who would? Ha-ha!)_ **

**_As I am writing this, I am sitting on my cot at Beaver Hollow, and Dutch has gone crazy. Some moments I do not even think he recognizes me anymore. I have known him since I was FOURTEEN YEARS OLD and he has been the only father I ever cared to know, but when I look at him now it's like he is a flat out stranger. I cannot express how sad this has made me. I mourn him as if he were already dead which I am certain he will be soon. These feelings have made me uncertain and weak. I am sick as well and not the man I once was._ **

**_I believe things are about to go badly bent. I have a feeling in the very bottom of my belly that you told me once about. You call it Oom Bray in that language you speak. I don't know what to call it but only that it feels terrible and I am afraid for us all. I think that my death or the death of us all is very close now and the idea frightens me only because I know that you will suffer if you survive me. Six months ago or even two I would not have been nearly so unhappy to know I would buy the farm. Now that I have you, I don't want to go anymore. In a way it is almost funny! Just a couple weeks after that doc told me I was a goner and suddenly something to live for! If there is a God he must have a real fucked up sense of humor!_**

**_You must get away from Dutch and from this gang even if I am gone. I want you to live a long and happy life even if it is without me. John MUST get away with his wife and child. Please help them if I am gone before you get back to me. They deserve freedom and ~~hap~~ happiness. I care for John more than I have ever let him know. He is my BROTHER._ **

**_I have never been happy in all my life but I was happy for the first time while I was with you. My heart has not stayed this glad in all the years I have been alive. If I live through this I will love you for the rest of my life. There will never be another._ **

**_One day after I am dead I feel certain you will read this and for much of the time these days I feel that I will be dead very soon. I am sicker every hour. If this is the last thing you hear from me Rane, know that I love you more than life itself and I will go to whatever comes next thinking only of you._ **

**_"The heart can't lie" and mine never did._**

**_Yours always,_ **

**_Arthur Morgan_**

Rane turned the page. It was blank. This was the last entry Arthur had posted before they had fled Beaver Hollow.

She shut it slowly and pushed it away from her. For a long moment she simply stared at it, at the scuffed leather cover and the crude little hook that kept it closed. The thought of it, clasped in Arthur's hands, occurred to her abruptly, and something about this image - of Arthur pouring his thoughts and feelings into this little book when no one was looking, indulging in his gentler nature when his harder, more austere one was not required - broke her entirely, for the first time in some years. She dropped her flask onto the wood floor with a clatter, bending over, clutching her midsection and crying hard, her sobs loud and echoing in the little room.


	62. Strawberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, Sadie and John arrive in Strawberry to begin the hunt for Micah Bell

_Now I don’t take pleasure in a man’s pain,_

_But my wrath will come down like the cold rain._

_And there won’t be no shelter, no place you can go_

_It's time to put your hands up, time for surrender,_

_I’m a vigilante, my love’s defender,_

_You’re a wanted man, here everybody knows._

_You better call the police, call the coroner,_

_Call up your priest, have him warn ya._

_Won't be no peace when I find that fool_

_Who did that to you, yeah,_

_Who did that to you, my baby,_

_Who did that to you,_

_Gotta find that fool who did that to you._

  * **John Legend**



___________________________________

The following day John Marston woke near dawn, as he did most mornings.

It was a tired habit. He was up at daybreak during the week to start his farming duties most days, but today was Saturday and here he was anyways, all comfortable somnolence departed from him already. He’d been quite happy to sleep past noon not so very long ago, when there was no work to be done. But of course there might indeed be work this day. Just not the farming sort.

He glanced askance, rubbing his face, his palm rasping against his unshaven cheek. The window to the left of the bed he shared with Abigail was brightening behind the transparent grommet drapes, but only just. The light was low, gray and grim. It was going to snow, judging by the chill in their room. Maybe all those puffed-up ranchers in Valentine ought not count their unhatched chickens yet, after all.

He shifted, sighing, and rolling over beneath the heavy quilt turned to Abigail. She was still asleep, both hands curled beneath her chin, her dark hair tangled about her head. He lay there for a moment, hands clasped beneath his cheek, looking at her, his eyes skating over her features. After a moment he threw the blanket off of him roughly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The motion of the mattress woke Abigail, who blinked up at him as he sat on the side of their bed, shirtless, his lean torso caught in the early morning light, accentuating the ridges of his spine and the long muscles of his shoulders. He put both hands over his face, sighing.

“You going?” she asked, her voice soft and rough with sleep. “So early?”

“Here shortly.” John sat back, putting his hands into his lap, then glanced at her, his expression a little boyish. “I’m sorta frightened, Abigail.”

“You’re _frightened_?” Abigail watched him from her pillow, her eyes dark and discerning. “For what reason, John?”

John shook his head, chewing his thumbnail. “I don’t rightly know. I truly don’t.”

“Well, sure you know. Is it Rane or is it Micah? Surely it’s one or the other.”

“Why would it be Rane?” said John, a little accusatory. “She’s on our side, for Christ’s sake.”

“You know that ain’t how I mean,” said Abigail, low.

John shook his head, scrubbing at his face. “It’s Micah. He ain’t small time, is all, and we’re riding in to wake some snakes. Could be he’ll land on us with all four feet, and I ain’t exactly been practicing my sharpshooting these past couple years.”

Abigail wasn’t so easily derailed by this. “And she ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, huh?”

John sighed, turning to her and meeting her gaze. “Abigail, I know we ain’t always seen eye to eye on this, but I want you to hear me right now: you know how I feel about Micah and what he did, I _know_ you do. Rane don’t factor into it. Okay?”

“But you care about her.”

“I care about her because she's my friend, and because Arthur loved her and she loved him. And that’s it. I need you to believe me on that,” he added quietly. “She’s hurting for Arthur real bad, Abigail. She deserves this just as much as me and Sadie.”

“Oh, hell.” Abigail shifted on her pillow. “She tell you that? Might could be she’s forgotten all about him and this is just her bein’ idle, John, not all women hang onto men that way.”

“Nah.” John shook his head. “I bet she’d never admit it, you remember how she is with her goddamned hubris -”

“Oh, don’t I ever.”

“- but you can tell that she’s been sufferin’. You shoulda seen her last night. Pounding drinks, cussin’ and carryin’ on . . . Lord knows if it was me in her place and you in Arthur’s, I’d do the same.”

Abigail fell back onto her pillow, looking at the ceiling, one hand massaging her brow.

“John Marston.” She sighed. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

John rolled toward her, taking her face in his hands, and kissed her long. “Abigail. I love ya. You know I do, sweetheart.”

“So I’m told.” Abigail drew back, meeting his eyes. “I hope you don’t think less of me if I don’t send out the welcome mat for her nevertheless.”

“Nah. Nor would she, I don’t think.” John planted another kiss on her forehead, getting to his feet and snatching his shirt up from the floor. “I’ll be back before dusk.”

Abigail got up onto her elbows, eyeing him shrewdly. “I wanted us to be through with this life years back.”

“So did I. Seems that this life wasn’t through with us yet.” He tweaked her chin gently, meeting her eyes. “You’re gonna sit right here and be gentle, and I’ll be back nightfall, then the three of us, Rane and Sadie and me, we’re all gonna go our separate ways and be finished with all that old business once and for all. I ain’t gonna leave you and Jack, honey. Not for anything.”

Abigail nodded, her lips pursed, then took his hand and kissed his palm gently. “Okay, John. You go. And you be safe.”

“Yes’m.” He offered her one last wan smile, then strode off out of their little bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head as he went. The screen door banged shut behind him.

  
  


THE sky was still velvety crimson overhead as John saddled Rachel and led her out of the barn, and it was now shot through with dark, fluffy clouds. Snow clouds, he thought. It might have been a fair winter and what seemed to be the start of an even fairer spring, but the cold months weren’t finished with them just yet. It was chilly enough to see his breath shearing in front of his lips, and this time he didn’t skip out on his heavy duster.

He rode to the fore of the ranch, halting a stamping Rachel there, and sat astride her, drawing his collar close around his neck and waiting. It wasn’t more than half an hour before Sadie appeared astride her dappled mustang, looking bleary-eyed.

“You look like you were ridden hard and put away wet, Mister Milton,” she remarked, tipping her hat toward him.

“Will you quit callin’ me that, please? Christ, bad enough I gotta hear it from my boss all goddamn day.”

“Sorry.” Sadie looked around. “Rane here yet?”

John shook his head, scanning the road leading to the ranch a little anxiously. “You reckon she’ll show?”

“Well, if she ain’t still too drunk, which she very well may be, I imagine she will, yeah.” Sadie tilted her hat back on her neck, peering up at the sky. “I believe it may snow before the end of it.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that myself. Maybe all them fellers in Valentine jumped the gun a little bit. All that talk about a good winter and the river not floodin’ and here we are comin’ up on June and it’s about to dump on us again one last time.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean we ain’t got much in the way of livestock here, but even Mister Geddes is all of a dither about the market, keeps talking of selling off his head of cattle just because they’re bought stiff right now. I just keep tellin’ him it ain’t worth it, turning ‘em loose just to be stuck without a herd come summer, but shit, he don’t listen. At least calve a few first, you know? Set yourself up for the next season?”

Sadie was eyeing him shrewdly. “You nervous or somethin’, John?”

“Nervous? Why you ask me that?”

“Because you’re talking so fast you sound like an auctioneer, and I know you don’t give no shit about cattle.”

John scoffed, rolling his eyes. Sadie sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose.

“Dammit. I knew I shouldn’t have come after you. A day in and already goin’ to bits -”

“Sadie, Jesus Christ,” John snapped impatiently. “Look, I been looking for Micah for three goddamn years now, of _course_ I feel a little bit anxious to get it over with. Wouldn’t anybody? Don’t _you_?”

“Yeah, but I’m nervous because the man’s a crack shot, not because I’m burning up for the pretty young thing riding with us to find him - ”

“Alright, look, I don’t wanna hear no more _about_ that, Sadie Adler, and I am goddamned fuckin’ _dead serious_ about it, you hear me?” snapped John, suddenly quite vitriolic. Sadie recoiled a little. “I can’t have no more bullshit in my head right now besides this thing with Micah, that’s more than enough to get me all out of sorts, so quit antagonizing me over fuckin’ Rane Roth. Christ almighty, you ain’t nothin’ if not relentless. Alright?”

Sadie lifted both hands, looking surprised and a little chastened. “Okay, okay, sure. I was just takin’ the piss outta you, John, I didn’t mean nothing.”

“You think you can put a lid on that horseshit for a little while without runnin’ off your mouth? Because I got shit on my mind besides her, believe it or not, this ain’t easy for me any way you look at it.”

“Okay, okay. I was only teasing.”

“Well, you can call it teasing but I say you’re makin’ like a sheep-killing dog and being a shit for the hell of it, myself,” John muttered crossly, pointing. “Here she is.”

Sadie followed his finger. Eli was trotting towards them, and Rane astride him. Her hair was tied back in a high knot, and she looked cross and not a little hungover.

“I should have fought you a lot harder about this whole meeting up at dawn thing, John Marston,” she remarked blearily as she drew close, pulling Eli into a tight, prancing little circle. “This getting up early shit is for the birds.”

“Might could be it’s made worse by the twelve pints you put away last night,” said Sadie, laughing.

“Well, that’s what hair of the dog is for,” Rane replied, pulling her flask from her jeans pocket and brandishing it for a moment before taking a swig. John scoffed.

“Good lord, Rane, it ain’t even midday yet, for crying out loud . . .”

“Maybe there was some misunderstanding last night about how much of the time I spend drunk these days,” said Rane dryly, reeling Eli around and glancing at him over her shoulder. “We’re heading for Strawberry, I understand?”

“We sure are.” Sadie spurred her horse on. “You two follow me.”

“Wait, I don’t get to say hi to the family?”

“Quit,” said John, low.

Rane subsided reluctantly. “Well, honestly I would have liked to see Jack, at least. How’s he living these days?”

"He's good, real good."

“Long and scrawny and all legs just like his pa,” Sadie replied, smirking. “He’s gonna be a lanky son of a bitch if he keeps going.”

“He must be what now, six? Seven?”

“Seven, yeah.” John was nodding. “Sproutin’ up like a weed.”

“Well, kids tend to do that.” Rane glanced back at him as Eli trotted beneath her, his hindquarters twitching. “Abigail good? I was afraid to ask last night."

“As Abigail goes, sure, I guess so.”

Sadie snorted. John cast her a dire look.

“Somethin’ funny?”

“Oh, hell, John, quit being so sensitive!” Sadie cried, laughing. “Jesus Christ, you’re so damn prudish anymore! You were always the first one to call Abigail out back in the day!”

“Yeah, well this ain’t back in the day no more,” John muttered crossly.

“She’s about as pissed as a hornet that you’re still around,” Sadie informed Rane, still laughing. John scoffed, looking irritable. “But she ain’t dead, and she’s tending to her own, so I guess she’s doin’ good, which is what Mister Milton here won’t tell ya.”

“Qut callin’ me that, I said.” John snapped Rachel’s reins, breaking into a trot. “We wasn’t sure you’d show up on time, Rane, all that boozin’ you did last night.”

“You guys are lucky I’m here at all, I had to ride to Annesburg and drop off ol’ Szechuan Bob before dawn,” said Rane grimly. “And the Sheriff was already two cups of coffee deep, which - Sadie can back me up on this - is a very, _very_ bad thing when you’re hung over -”

“Christ, that man could talk a gate off its hinges,” Sadie muttered, shaking her head.

“- exactly, so I’m about sixty percent asleep right now, I’ll tell no lies. Also hungry. If I see a Waffle House, we’re pulling over.”

“So the way I see it, we get to Strawberry and split up, see if we can’t find Cleet that way,” said Sadie. “Cover more ground between the three of us.”

“No.” John was shaking his head. “I want us stickin’ together for this. If we come on Cleet, we’re gonna do it all in one. I ain’t keen to start trouble in town, Abigail’s trying to find work there and Rane can take him down quiet.”

Rane snorted. “When have I ever done anything quietly?”

“You know.” John gestured vaguely. “That . . . _thing_ you do, with the ropes and the red light and all that chintzy shit.”

“ _Chintzy_?” Rane cast an insulted look at him over her shoulder. “Did you just call me _chintzy_?”

“You know what I mean.”

Rane scoffed, turning back to the trail a trifle haughtily.“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that ship has sailed.”

John looked at her with some surprise. “What? Why?”

“Because the genteel and most preeminent Micah fucking Bell smashed my wand three years ago. Thought I told you guys that.”

“So get another one,” said Sadie, shrugging.

“Get another one? What do you want me to do, pop on down to the wand store?” Rane pulled her flask and took another swig, wincing. “We get those things when we’re little kids, Sadie, it’s no small feat to replace one. I wouldn’t even know where to start looking, you don’t just snap a twig off a tree and start waving it around all willy-nilly.”

“You planning on taking on Cleet shitty-assed drunk?” John asked her a trifle reproachfully. “Before noon, at that?”

“Not like it would make much difference,” said Rane, sounding boastful enough, but John saw her stow her flask into her pocket again nevertheless, looking a little chastened. “That guy couldn’t hit the floor if he fell out of bed, judging by what I saw.”

“Just take it easy, is all I’m askin’.”

Rane sighed, glowering ahead. “If you say so.”

  
  


THE three of them came upon Strawberry some hour later, as the sun was riding a little higher. The snow clouds were drawing together now with more decisiveness, and the first little flurry of snowflakes was beginning to fall, lighting on Rachel’s mane. Rane was peering upwards, smirking, squinting a little.

“Think winter isn’t quite done with us yet,” she said, her voice light. “Your cattle ranchers might have gotten their party on a little prematurely.”

“It’s a fluke,” said Sadie, looking around her, one hand on her gun. There weren’t many people about, but she felt a little uneasy nevertheless. “There’s always a squall or two end of season.”

“You sound nervous,” Rane remarked, glancing back at her shrewdly.

“You ain’t?”

"There," said John abruptly, pointing past Rane's shoulder before she could answer Sadie.

Both women glanced in the direction he'd indicated. There was a man sitting on the porch of the inn some ways away, boots propped up on the balcony ledge, smoking a cigar. Rane squinted, her eyes flicking across his features. He was tall, lanky, with dark, thinning hair and a sort of mousy look about him. It _could_ have been Cleet, maybe but . . .

"I don't really remember what he looked like anymore," she remarked, low. "You sure that's him?"

John heaved a rough sigh, nodding his head. “Oh, I'm sure, alright.”

“So now what do we do?” Sadie said, glancing between Rane and John. “Should we go in after him right away? I sure wish we'd have spotted him a little further out.”

“He's looking right at us,” said Rane, turning her face down a little and covering her mouth with one hand. "You think he'd recognize us? I only met him a time or two.”

"Yeah, well him and me spent plenty of time together," said John quietly.

“Shit, he’s getting up,” Sadie breathed.

Rane cast her eyes over her shoulder. Cleet was indeed getting to his feet, slow and a little cautious, his eyes on the three of them. He pulled the cigar from his lips and cast it unceremoniously away from him toward the little river that ran through town, then turned and started for the inn, walking rather quickly.

“Oh no you don’t, motherfucker,” she whispered, slipping off Eli. “Come on, you guys.”


	63. Cleet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, Sadie and John find the man they're searching for in Strawberry

_When all of this is said and done,_

_You will be alone_

_'Cause I know this won't last forever_

_Here's a toast to your unknown_

_Mother of us all_

_You and I are one together_

_I know this won't last forever_

_But I wish this would last forever_

_I know this won't last forever_

_But I wish this would last forever._

**\- Rebelution**

_______________________

John and Sadie were dismounted in the space of a second behind Rane, leaving both their surprised, stamping mounts behind without tying them, but Rane was already far ahead, her hair falling loose of the knot at the top of her head and wafting in the wind, her arms swinging at her sides.

“Rane, get your ass _back_ here!” John hissed sharply, drawing the surprised gazes of several severe-looking women standing near the livery. He offered them a half-assed smile. “‘Scuse me, ladies, my friend, she's just . . ." He cleared his throat awkwardly. " _Rane_! I know damn well you hear me -!”

  
Rane halted reluctantly, looking impatient. “Well, _come on_! You got lead in your shoes? He’s gonna try to light out if we don’t hurry up!”

Sadie reached her and shoved at her shoulder gently, her expression dismayed. “We just agreed about three minutes ago we’d do this together, so quit rushin’ off by yourself! You’re too used to bounty-hunting for your own damn good, girl!”

John readjusted his belt, looking towards the inn, trying to think fast.

“Sadie, you go 'round back,” he said, jerking his head. “There’s a door facing the river on the other side. Me and Rane will go in the front way. You find him first, you hold him, but don’t let him get no further on. And don't get shot,” he added forbiddingly.

Sadie strode off without another word, drawing her gun and letting it hang loosely at her side. Rane glanced at John, the snow falling around her. He leaned towards her, his gaze hard.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he said sternly, “kill him. Not till we get somethin’ out of him about Micah.”

“What do I look like, a hair trigger?”

“A little bit, yeah.” John gestured at the pocket where she'd stowed her flask, brushing past her. “A soggy one, at that. Just don’t do nothin’ stupid, is all I’m asking.”

Rane followed him, her expression a little dire, but she said nothing. They reached the porch of the inn, their boots hitting the wood hollowly, and John opened the door gingerly, one hand on the butt of his gun. The innkeeper was just inside, poring over a pile of papers through a pair of thick reading glasses. He looked up as they entered, his brow furrowed, his eyes almost comically magnified by his specs, which looked as thick as soda bottles.

“Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing them with some trepidation. "We don't rent by the hour, mister, just so it's said -"

“We ain't here for that, "said John, waving this off, a trifle red-faced. "A man just came in here, which way’d he go?”

“Sir, I must insist you holster your weapon indoors, this is an upstanding business and we do not suffer ruffians in this establishm -”

Rane pulled her sword with a clang, aiming it at the innkeeper. He leapt backward with surprising agility for a man his age, overturning his chair with a clatter and sending a large sheaf of his papers to the floor in a flurry, his eyes wide behind his specs.

“ _Madam_!” he gasped.

“Give me your hands and get back up against that wall,” said Rane roughly, lifting her chin. The innkeeper did at once, looking frightened. John cast her a furious look.

“What did I say about making _trouble_?”

Rane ignored him. “I’m a bounty hunter and this man is my associate,” she said, meeting the innkeeper's terrified gaze and speaking briskly. “The guy who just walked through those doors is wanted for murder in the first degree, and if he gets away on your account I’ll be back here looking for the money you cost me, my dude, make no mistake about it.”

The innkeeper gaped at her, mouthing like a fish out of water.

"Which way did he go, amigo?" asked Rane roughly, brandishing her sword a little. "Don't make me ask you another time, God help you."

The man eyed her for another moment, then aimed a trembling hand toward the back. Rane sheathed her sword and swept away without another word. John cast the innkeeper an apologetic look as he followed her, walking backwards and showing the man his palms.

"She don't mean nothin' by it."

"Okay, sure, whatever you say."

“Don’t you call the authorities, mister, we won't thank you for that.” John found, with a touch of grim amusement, that threatening a stranger didn’t come nearly as naturally as it had three or four years ago. Maybe he _had_ gone domestic, after all. “You sit there and be gentle while we tend to this, you hear?”

“Yessir, absolutely not, I’d never.”

The back door was already banging shut, and John could hear the thudding of Rane’s footsteps as she took off running in the dirt road. He hurried after her, certain she’d spotted Cleet. If she was worked up enough to aim a blade at some innocent little old man, he felt fairly certain she was worked up enough to put it through somebody's chest if the fancy took her, and he couldn't have that happening, not yet anyways. There was the sound of a tussle in the road outside now, and a male voice shouting in surprise.

“Don’t kill him!” he shouted as he shouldered the door open, charging out into the street. “Don’t _kill_ him, Rane, hang on now! Lemme talk to him first, dammit!”

It was in fact not Rane but Sadie that had tackled Cleet to the ground, clouting him across the face once, and presently he lay on his back in the dirt, staring up at her uneasily. Rane was prowling around the outskirts of this encounter, her sword held loosely at her side, watching Cleet with an expression of predatory alertness, like a lioness waiting for her turn at a carcass. Sadie kicked at Cleet’s side, drawing a breathy cry from him.

“What the hell you people want outta me?” Cleet cried, looking between the three of them with bewilderment. "Jesus Christ, I ain't done nothin' to none of ya!"

“What, you don’t remember us?” said Sadie roughly. “Take a good long look, you son of a bitch.”

“I don’t know any one of ya, I never seen you before in my life!”

"What about him? You recognize _him_?" said Rane loudly, gesturing at John. And when Cleet's eyes slid away from hers, she lifted her voice to a sudden, pitchy shout: "LOOK at him, Cleet! LOOK AT HIM!"

Cleet’s eyes met John’s, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, and though he said nothing, Rane could see the recognition dawning in his eyes. It brought fear with it, almost terror, and he lifted both his hands in front of his face, cowering.

“Hey, look, now, I don’t want no trouble -”

“You don’t want no _trouble_?” John leaned over Cleet, grasping a handful of his shirt in one hand, and punched him hard in the face. It was the first time he’d hit someone since some six months prior, before he had been forced to take to the roads again with Abigail and Jack, and though he didn't know it then his knuckles would bruise from fingertips to wrist for weeks from that punch. In that moment, so inflamed with anger, he hardly felt it at all. “You shoulda thought of that before you caused _us_ so much damn trouble, I guess, huh?”

He aimed a kick at Cleet that took him in the chin, throwing him backwards. He spit a copious amount of blood onto the dirt, coughing, glaring up at John.

“You don’t know nothin’ about what happened back then, boy -!”

“I AIN'T NO BOY! WHERE’S MICAH?” John bellowed, and punched him again, teeth bared. There were passers-by watching now, but this was Strawberry; the beating of a man in the street was not so terribly unusual here. “WHERE’S MICAH, CLEET?”

“I ain’t _seen_ Micah!”

“WHERE IS HE?”

“I don’t know! We fell out!” Cleet’s mouth was red with his own blood as well as John’s, and he was staring up at him with genuine fear. “We fell out! Christ almighty, don’t hit me no more! I don’t know _nothin_ ’!”

Rane strode forward, aiming her sword, and kneeling next to him she placed the business end at the base of his throat, holding the helm at her side with both hands and meeting his eyes. He froze, looking at her, terrified.

“You remember _me_?” she asked him softly. “You remember _my_ face?”

Cleet shook his head minutely, daring to move only just, his eyes wide.

“But you remember Arthur Morgan? I bet you remember _him_. Big, wide-shouldered, good-looking blonde guy, fast with his guns, close in Dutch's ear. _That_ ring a bell in your dull ass head?”

Cleet nodded, terrified.

“Well, that was my man,” said Rane, deadly quiet. “And you and yours got him killed, and I’m a little bit sore about it. I’m gonna give you one chance to keep your breath in your chest, and that’s by telling us where Micah Bell is. So you look at John right now and you start talking, or so help me I’m gonna cut your fucking throat out. You hear me?”

Cleet gaped at her a moment longer, his mouth opening and closing haplessly. Rane leaned back and with a sharp, almost imperceptibly quick motion her sword flew into a broad circle around her wrist, slashing backwards. A long, deep gash appeared in Cleet’s thigh, and he cried out, blood dashing from the wound. Rane aimed her sword back at his throat.

“SAY!” she said loudly, her eyes bright. “Next time I won’t cut so shallow!”

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ, let me alone!” Cleet cried, grasping his leg. “He’s up in the mountains! I think . . . I think he’s at Mount Hagen!”

“Mount Hagen?” Sadie eyed him, bewildered. “Why’s he up there?”

“I don’t know, hell, he turned me loose! He tried to kill me!” Cleet was still clutching his bleeding thigh. “Jesus, lady, I think you hit somethin’ important -!”

“What’s he doin’ up there?” John asked roughly.

“Shit, I dunno, I said! He’s got a whole gang now! Bad men doin’ bad things! The hell do you think he’s doing? Same thing he always does, I guess!” Cleet groaned. “After all that shit with him killin’ that Morgan bastard, he went on a spree, started doin’ all manner of mad shit. I ain’t never seen him act that way, he was all over the place.”

Rane eyed him, her face suddenly oddly flaccid. “That _Morgan bastard_.”

“Rane.” Sadie was watching her a little warily. “Steady on, girl.”

“Look, I don’t know, I was just workin’ for him, Jesus Christ.” Cleet clutched his leg, looking at Rane brashly. “I need a doctor, goddammit -!”

“You don’t need a doctor, boy, you need a coroner,” said Rane, her voice very low, and with a sudden, brutal swing of her sword Cleet’s head was parted with his shoulders. It landed a few feet away, rolling into the snow-choked gutter and vanishing from sight. Sadie and John recoiled, taking a step back in surprise. Cleet’s body twitched a moment, still upright, then fell over, blood running from his neck, trembling in the snow.

“Jesus!” John gasped, looking at Rane, shocked. “You didn’t have to do _that_!”

Rane ran her sword through a wad of her cloak, glaring at him beneath her brows. “John Marston, you’ve been living indoors too long,” she remarked, very cold, and sheathing her sword with a clang she turned to Sadie. “Where’s Mount Hagen?”

“It ain’t far, but Rane, you can’t be takin’ boys’ heads off on the way there,” said Sadie, looking around her uneasily. There were townspeople watching them from their porches, curious, murmuring behind cupped hands. “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, for Christ’s sake.”

Rane whistled between her fingers, turning, looking for Eli. He appeared around the corner, trotting towards her.

“You guys were just gonna let him go?” she asked, pulling her flask from her pocket again. “What, did you think he was just gonna go live a chaste life and give up all his demons? Come on. You aren’t so simple as all that.”

“It ain’t about fretting for Cleet's immortal soul, it’s about keeping this shit quiet,” said John chastisingly. He was starting in the other direction, scanning for Rachel. “Christ, you get so damn busted up over shit, Rane, you always have -”

“WELL, DO YOU BLAME ME?” Rane suddenly shouted, whirling towards him, her eyes wild. John stopped, surprised. “AFTER WHAT HAPPENED, DO YOU BLAME ME?” She gestured at the headless corpse she had just created with the hand that held her flask. “HE HELPED GET ARTHUR KILLED!”

“ _LOOK_ AT YOURSELF!” John bellowed back, suddenly angry, spinning around. He aimed a finger at her. “YOU HAD ALL THE MAKINGS TO GO ON AND DO SOMETHING DECENT WITH YOURSELF, RANE, YOU HAD A BETTER CHANCE THAN ANY OF US, BUT INSTEAD YOU DECIDED TO CHASE AFTER PETTY CRIMINALS FOR MONEY YOU DON’T NEED AND DRINK YOURSELF TO DEATH! YOU THINK I’M GONNA TAKE ANY KIND OF MORAL HIGH GROUND YOU TRY FOR WITH THE SLIGHTEST BIT OF VALUE, YOU BETTER THINK AGAIN, GIRL! _DAMN_ , BUT AIN’T I DISAPPOINTED IN THE WAY YOU TURNED OUT!”

Rane stared into his eyes, breathing quickly, frozen by these words. Sadie, standing by John’s side, said nothing, only watched them warily. The people who had been drawn by the fray with Cleet were also watching this, some of the women with their aprons drawn up over their faces.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say to me,” said Rane after a long moment, her voice soft with dismay.

“Yeah, well, choppin’ a feller’s head clean off was a hell of a thing to do,” said John quietly. He turned and whistled loudly. “We need to get outta here. Law don’t look on too kindly when people part men’s heads from their shoulders and my family don’t need no more trouble than we already got.”

THE three of them were riding away from Strawberry some ten minutes later. No lawmen had taken notice of Cleet, thankfully enough - John suspected he wouldn’t be sorely missed, judging by his priors - but Rane was grimly silent, clopping along astride Eli some ways behind them, her head low. Presently Sadie heeled her mustang.

“I gotta make water,” she said, sliding out of her saddle. “Watch my horse.”

John watched her stride off into the brush, then slid off Rachel himself, pressing his hat down on his head a little further. Behind him, Rane was slipping off Eli as well, smoothing the snow from his mane. John watched her a moment, shoving his hands into his pockets, then cleared his throat.

“Hey.”

Rane glanced at him, a little hesitant. “Yeah?”

“Come over here a second.”

Rane did, eyeing him warily.

“I’m sorry for back there,” he said, shaking his head. “Truly I am."

Rane shook her head, waving this off, looking a little uncomfortable. “You don't have to apologize.”

"No, I think I do." John rubbed his forehead ruefully. "It's just . . . you gotta understand, we've been on and off the road so much these past few years, and now here we are finally a little bit settled and making some money . . . I don't wanna risk uprooting us again, you know what I mean? I already fucked it up enough as it is, Jack's too damn young to be moving so much -"

"John, you can talk about how out of line you were for jumping my ass all damn day, but I just decapitated a guy," said Rane, looking grimly amused. "There's a pretty clear winner here."

"Yeah, well." John shifted his weight, glancing over Rane's shoulder a little surreptitiously. Sadie was still in the woods. He hadn't gotten a chance to be completely alone with Rane since they'd come across her to begin with. "I won't say he didn't deserve it."

Rane glanced at him wryly, one side of her mouth curving into a little smirk. "You think he deserved to get his head lopped off for calling Arthur a bastard? That doesn't seem a little, I dunno, _superfluous_ to you?"

"No, but I seen you do more ill-advised things in my life than all that," John admitted, smirking. "You got a temper on you like nobody's business, woman."

"I just . . ." Rane growled low in her throat, shaking her head and placing both hands on her hips. "I feel like I spend all the time pissed off anymore. When he said that name, I just . . . man, I saw red. I thought it would die down a little bit over the years but it's still so close sometimes."

John met her eyes for a moment, rocking a little bit on his heels, chewing his lip.

"I got somethin' to say to you ain't gonna be easy for me to say," he said at last, speaking a little quickly.

Rane looked instantly wary. John laughed at her expression, feeling a little out of sorts.

"You don't even know what I'm gonna say yet, Jesus Christ, Rane -"

"No, I know what you're gonna say," said Rane, low, looking at the dirt. Her voice was resigned and a little sad. "But go ahead and say it if you have to."

"At least look at me, would you?"

She did. A long moment of silence passed between them, Rane's eyes unwavering and lovely on John's. She was terribly beautiful in the low light, with the snowflakes drifting down around her. Again, it was as if time had slipped backwards, and they were still back at Clemens Point on the shore of the bayou the night Arthur had ridden into camp with her hogtied on the back of his horse. John had debated bringing any of this up since Sadie had told him she thought she'd known where Rane was - indeed, he had ruminated over this very hypothetical more than a few times the past few years - but once he was looking into her eyes, any remaining doubt was neatly swept away.

“I gotta say it, Rane, I haven’t quit loving you all these years,” he said, his voice very low. “Not for a goddamned second. Not even after Arthur.”

Rane exhaled softly, dropping her gaze and shaking her head.

“I don’t think you loved me in the first place, John, let alone kept on for three years.”

"Well, you don't know everything."

"No, but I know _you_."

"Shit, barely. We spent what, a week and some change together over the last three years?"

"You're not helping your point," said Rane, unsmiling.

"I'm not?"

Rane gestured vaguely. "You knew me for a couple days and you think you feel that way?"

" _Arthur_ did." John flapped a hand at her. " _You_ did. How am I any different?"

Rane fell back, looking a little castigated.

"It is what it is," said John, shrugging. He hesitated, then muttered, "fuck it."

He leaned forward and placing one hand on her cheek pressed his mouth against hers gently. For a moment her lips were the world, the taste of her fantastically fetching and familiar, reminiscent of years long past, of thoughts that had lingered with him for ages. She allowed it for a moment, though he could sense her reticence, then he leaned back and rested his forehead against hers. His heart was beating hard and fast in his chest. How long had he wanted to kiss her again? Had it been so many years? It was like a drink of water after a week in the desert, and if he needed any more evidence of how deeply he felt for her, here it was. It was an ugly truth, a hard one, filling him with both joy and deep shame in a conflicting tangle. He had indeed never stopped feeling how he felt towards her, not even in the long years of her absence when he was sure she was dead. It made him feel lesser towards himself.

"That's the first time I've kissed anyone in three fucking years," Rane muttered, drawing back and meeting his eyes. "And it wasn't what I was picturing, if we're being honest."

"What, I ain't good?"

Rane scoffed, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed. "Oh, for fuck's sake. That's not what I meant. Sadie's gonna come back and see this and raise hell."

"Let her." John leaned towards her again, his eyes on her mouth, but Rane pressed him back gently, shaking her head.

“No, no, no, hang on,” she said softly. “You gotta stop.”

"I shoulda tried harder to win you over all them years back, Rane.”

"John, you don't love me." Rane was shaking her head. "You _never_ loved me. Shit, sometimes I don't even know if you _liked_ me. I don't even think you like me very much _now_."

"That ain't true and you know it." John moved a little closer to her, his eyes soft. "I like you just fine, Rane, better than fine."

Rane shook her head again, shifting away from him as he went for her hand. It was a subtle thing, but there were leagues of truth in it.

“You've got to put this away, John." She met his eyes. "I'm not gonna be around a whole lot longer, you need to focus on -"

“Wait, hang on, _hang_ on.” John gave her a surprised look. “ _What_? The hell you talkin' about, you ain't around a lot longer?”

Sadie was emerging from the woods, buckling her belt. “You lot ready to push on?”

Rane and John looked at one another a long moment. After a second Rane grasped one of his hands in hers gently for a moment. Her palm was warm and dry.

“Let’s keep going. It’s getting towards noon and this snow is apt to get rough in a few hours.”

John watched her lean form as she climbed onto Eli with practiced ease, her cloak sweeping about her as she did, noting the minuscule motions of her thighs and the trim curve of her waist as she did so with a lover’s eyes, feeling a sinking in his stomach at the sight of it. After another second he climbed onto Rachel again, his brow knit, and snapped the reins, feeling wildly out of sorts, confused in a way he hadn’t been in years.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he said, and spurred her on. “YA!”


	64. Scordatura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, Sadie and John make the final approach to Micah Bell's hideout.

_if you have something to say_   
_You'd better say it now_   
_'Cause this is what you've waited for_   
_Your chance to even up the score_   
_And as these shadows fall on me now_   
_I will somehow_   
_'Cause I'm picking up the message, Lord_   
_And I'm closer than I've ever been before_   
_So if you have something to say_   
_Say it to me now_   
_Just say it to me now._

**\- Glen Hansard**

**______________________**

  
They rode together in relative silence for some three miles outside of Strawberry, the snow falling heavily around them as they drew nearer to the mountain’s summit. Rane had never even heard of Mount Hagen, let alone been there, and she gave Eli his lead to follow along behind John and Sadie, his bridle lax. The pine trees were growing taller around them, and so was the chill. This was Ambarino in its full and formidable glory if she had ever seen it.

“What’s at Mount Hagen?” she asked at length, her breath puffing out in front of her. "A town? Anything? I've never made it up there that far."

“A whole lot of nothin’,” said Sadie quietly. “What he’s doin’ up there all by his lonesome like that I’m sure I don’t know. Too bad we can't ask Cleet,” she added sardonically. Rane scoffed, turning her eyes to the heavens.

“Walk with me, Lord, these children are testing me today.”

Sadie snorted. “You gonna chop my head off too? Shit.”

“Keep it up.” Rane was pulling her flask. “Don’t play with me when my blood’s all up, I might just go on a head-chopping rampage, start fricasseeing everyone that I come across -”

“Y’all, knock it _off_ , would you?” John snapped abruptly. “Christ, this ain’t a goddamn day trip, listen to yourselves. Feels like I’m riding around with Jack or somethin’.”

“Alright, alright, sorry, I’ll shut up.”

Rane popped the top of her flask open with her thumb. John leaned over, snatched the flask from Rane’s lax grasp and turning in his saddle hucked it as hard as he could into the forest at the side of the trail. It sailed end over end, throwing glints of sun off its silvery hull, and vanished into the overgrowth. Rane cast John an outraged look.

“You better start icing your ass right now, Mister Marston.”

“No, now, you had enough,” said John, brushing his hands off on his duster and meeting her gaze. “It’s ten in the goddamned fuckin’ morning, Rane Roth. Christ, what would Arthur say? You ridin’ in to square up with Micah damn Bell halfway tanked before midday? I’d have thought you’d be takin’ this more seriously than any one of us, and here you are horsin’ around like it’s a thing to do.”

Rane, to her credit, looked quite reproved by this, her gaze sliding back to the snowy path before them, frowning. John wasn’t mollified by this.

“You think this is a damn joke?” he went on reproachfully. “I haven’t quit thinkin’ about this since Arthur died, Rane, I really ain’t. This matters to me a whole hell of a lot and I don’t look too warmly on you making a bunch of goddamn jokes about shit while we’re on our way there.”

“John, I’ve spent the last three years in self-exile over what happened to him. I promise you that I don’t take this lightly.”

“Well, it sure does look that way to me, Rane, and I got a young kid, so I oughta know.”

"Okay." Rane looked chastened indeed now, her head low. "I hear you. I'm sorry."

She kicked Eli on before he could say any more, cantering past them both ahead onto the trail, dirt and snow flying up at Eli’s heels. Sadie cast John a cool look from his side.

“Let her alone.”

John cast her a scandalized look. “ _Me_? She’s acting like a damn -!”

“You think you’re the only one hurtin’ for Arthur?” Sadie snapped at him. “Not everybody handles shit by laying up on a goddamned ranch and playing house, John Marston.”

“Oh, so you think she’s dealin’ with it by laughin’ it off? That it?”

“Well, yeah, actually, I sorta do,” Sadie replied in a low hiss. “It ain’t the prettiest way I ever saw, sure, drinkin’ herself stupid and makin’ jokes, and most of us maybe are a little bit better at it, but there it is. So before you get all hard on her, try and remember that. She seems all tough and hard and making like it’s funny, John, but we both know better. Shit, you saw her last night.”

John glared at her for a moment, scowling, then shook his head. “Fuck.” He lifted his voice. “Rane, come back here!”

Rane, glanced back, heeling Eli a little. “What, you wanna throw something else of mine into the woods?”

“No, we just gotta level up, fall on back here and quit sulkin’.”

Rane halted Eli, waiting for them to catch up. “Is that an apology?”

“Hell no it ain’t.” John gave her a grimly amused look. “Are you on drugs or dog food? Just ‘cause we gotta sort this shit out with Micah don’t make you any less drunk, does it?”

Rane scoffed. “Okay, I get the point, John, I’m drying out.”

“Cleet said Micah wasn’t alone,” said John, still looking surly. “So I think we oughta go in expecting more than just him.”

“Well, Micah never was the sorta man to fly stag, the leechy son of a bitch,” Sadie remarked.

“All I’m sayin’ is we ought be ready for an onslaught, this ain’t gonna be no stealth shit.”

“Well, that’s why y'all came to find me for this, right?” said Rane.

Both Sadie and John looked over at her. Rane laughed at their expressions, sounding for the first time genuinely amused, her eyes lighting up a little as she shook her head.

“Oh, man. If you guys ever wanna play poker, you call me up first. I'll take your money.”

“Hey, we asked you to come along because we knew you had an ax to grind same as us,” said Sadie, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Really? So it didn't have anything to do with the fact that you guys are going into a buzzsaw and you wanted me to back you up? Would you have come looking for me if I was a little tender-hearted creampuff in a bustle waving a fan around? _Huh_?” She added, still grinning as Sadie and John both looked away, clearly uncomfortable.

“Well.” John waved a hand, a little red. “Rane, we wanted you with us for a whole bunch of reasons.”

Rane laughed loud and long, throwing her head back. “John, I oughta kick your ass like an extra point, trying to play that card.”

“I ain’t playin’ cards, Rane, that’s the truth!”

"Whatever you say, Slim."

“Oh, hell.” Sadie flapped her hands. “Don’t start making it all funny.”

“Yeah, it’s funny, sure, it’s fucking hilarious, you guys making a spectacle out of me,” Rane agreed, low. “If they gave you an enema they could bury you in a matchbox, Sadie Adler -”

“Always, _always_ so fuckin’ glib,” John muttered, shaking his head at her.

“Glib is better than suggestible,” Rane snapped.

“If you say so.”

“If I _say_ so? You don’t think -?”

A shot rang out, suddenly, shockingly loud, echoing off the rock walls around them. A few seconds later, the bullet hit the trail near Rachel’s hooves, throwing snow and dirt into the air. She reared, braying, causing John to snatch at the bridle in alarm.

"Shit!" he hissed, staring around. "That was a goddamn sniper, I think!"

"Where's he at? I don't see him!" Sadie was roving the mountainside, alarmed. "That sound like a big old bolt-action to you too, John?"

"I think if it wasn't, we'd be dead already," John agreed, fumbling for his gun. As if to punctuate this, another shot rang out, followed by the whistling ricochet of another bullet. Rane felt the wind from this one pass far too near her head for comfort, rippling her hair back. The horses all started, whinnying.

"Alright, well he's either real damn close or he's a crackshot, and either way I don't wanna be standin' out here in the open," said Sadie, sliding hastily out her saddle. "Let's lose the horses. YA! G'ON, GET!"

Rane slipped off Eli, slapping at his hindquarters. He balked, pawing, and she hissed at him through her teeth.

“Go on, Eli!”

He didn't, though; he held his ground, stamping, eyeing her, ears pinned back defiantly. It was the first time he'd ever disobeyed her this brashly, and Rane felt a little twinge of disquiet at it. She'd had no other companions during her years on the road, and he knew her better than anyone did these days. She hardened her heart, though, waving a hand obdurately, meeting his dark eyes with her hazel. She wasn't about to see him get gunned down by some fool working for Micah, not today.

" _Go_ , I said! _Go_ , before you get your goofy ass shot! _Gwa'em_!"

He snorted, clearly reluctant, and turning fled away at last, hooves flying. Rane slid hastily behind a boulder at the side of the road, keeping low. The silence was ringing and portentous.

“Do you guys see him?” she hissed.

Sadie and John were crouched behind a pine tree on the other side of the road, shoulder to shoulder, guns drawn.

"Do _you_ see him?" John replied. "You're the one with the peeled eye, girl!"

"Hey, you wanna jump my ass some more, you pick him out first, pretty boy, put those sparkly eyes to work -!"

"Oh, the pair of you, hush!" Sadie shouted, looking affronted. "Will one of you just get eyes on him so we can keep on?"

“I think he’s northwest, towards the left.” John jerked his head. "Think I saw a glint, coulda been a gun."

"Are you sure?" Rane asked, looking over at him.

"Well, there's bullets comin' from up there, ain't there?"

Rane squinted towards where John had indicated. After a moment, she spotted what he must have seen; motion, and the faint twinkle of metal.

"John's right, he's laid up right there," she said, shifting her weight and drawing her sword. "So now that I've got eyes on him, you guys get behind me when I -"

She didn’t get to finish her sentence. A shot rang out as soon as Rane broke cover, but her blade was flying before her just as quickly. She wasn’t quick enough with the first one to send it back at its point of issue - John suspected it was all the booze she’d sucked down earlier - and she froze, waiting for the next crack of gunfire. It came right on schedule, and in the second or two between the sound and the bullet, John had a moment of raw astonishment for her speed. She listened, gauged the distance, her sword hanging two-handed above her shoulder, and at the perfect moment swung her blade around her like a baseball bat, teeth gritted, crying out hoarsely with effort, the muscles in her shoulders bunching. The clang of the shot striking her blade was shockingly loud - a heavy caliber, throwing sparks into the snow - and they all saw the sniper jolt out of cover a moment later and then fall without fanfare from the side of the mountain, limbs akimbo.

"Jesus, you really put your back into that one," Sadie remarked, eyebrows high.

Rane swung her sword around her wrist once, casting a wry grin towards where Sadie and John were crouched. "See? Told you guys I wasn't that drunk."

  
THE three of them fought their way to the peak over the next few minutes, though it wasn’t easy. There were men stationed all along the mountain, and the bullets rang almost constantly as they went. Rane was instrumental, though John would never have said as much to her; she was out in front of them, her blade flying, the bullets flying away from them, and Sadie and John were responsible for laying low the men who were shooting at them. The snow was falling steadily now, lighting in their hair and falling around them heavily. It was cold and silent save the firing of weapons.

At last they came upon a summit, and by that time the three of them were soaked through, cold and exhausted. John and Sadie had their weapons pulled, panting and damp, Sadie with her hair hanging in strings about her face and John with his shirt clinging to his lean chest. Rane was at the fore, sword drawn, eyes bright and cold beneath her brows, her dark hair clinging to her cheeks, panting.

“There’s a little shack up there, you see it?” Sadie said.

“Yeah, I see it,” said John, his guns still aimed. He dropped another man before them.

"You want for me to go first?" said Rane, glancing at them.

“Nah, nah, you’re gonna go down just like the rest of us,” said Sadie, smirking at Rane as she made to wave them back again. “Ain’t no hero business about this one, sweetheart, this is personal.”

The hut was small, quite practical, and Rane was a little amused at the sight of it. She had never known Micah to allow himself shelter in such a humble little process.

“You really think he's in there?” she said, low, striding forward, her sword drawn.

“Yep,” said John. "I think he might just be."

“Well, let's have ourselves a little misunderstanding, then. MICAH BELL!” Rane screamed, and twirled her sword around her wrist once, its blade whistling. “COME ON OUT!”


	65. Micah Bell III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rane, Sadie and John encounter Micah Bell for the final time

_I'm sentimental_

_So I walk in the rain_

_I've got some habits_

_Even I can't explain_

_Go to the corner,_

_I end up in Spain._

_Why try to change me now?_

_So let people wonder_

_Let 'em laugh, let 'em frown_

_You know I'll love you_

_Till the moon's upside down_

_Don't you remember?_

_I was always your clown_

_Why try to change me now?_

  * **Fiona Apple**



  
_________________________

Rane, John and Sadie stood before the shack at the top of Mount Hagen, all filthy and out of breath, all with weapons drawn. The silence around them was deafening. The shots of their assailants from past the summit had finally subsided, whether by death or cowardice, and now it was only the little rickshaw shack before them in which their quarry hid, and nothing else aside from the white winter sky over them. The snow fell around them relentlessly, gentle and steady, heedless of the tension beneath. The three of them were side by side on the mountainside, terribly reminiscent of how they had been three years prior; John with his legs staggered and his cold gaze on the shack, his scarred face fierce beneath Arthur’s hat, Sadie bent a little at the waist with both guns drawn and her blond hair wavering across her face, Rane at the fore with her sword held in both hands before her, eyes dark and dangerous beneath her brows as she stared over her blade, her breath coming in hot white puffs.

By all accounts, they were alone. Rane’s challenging shout hung in the air, and for several seconds nothing at all happened.

"There ain't nobody here," Sadie muttered.

"Oh, like hell there ain't." John stepped forward, mouth drawn down, muscles tense and back straight. In that moment, suddenly, he was once more the formidable gunslinger he had always been beneath all his attempts to adopt a more peaceable life, and every year that had dulled his polish since the end of the Van Der Linde gang fell away without fanfare. He gestured with his gun, his face twisted with rage. “COME ON OUTTA YOUR HOLE, MICAH! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”

There was a moment of silence as the three of them stood there together, weapons drawn and aimed. After a moment the door of the little shack they were facing swung open, creaking, and Micah Bell strode out slowly, both guns in his hands, watching them warily. He looked older, grayer, and the set of his shoulders was lean and a little scant, as if the passage of time had begun to thin him out, but it was Micah, nonetheless.

At the sight of him, Rane felt a surge of insurmountable, almost wild fury rise within her. It was incredibly powerful, growing from the bottom up like a pot of boiling water, surprising her with its intensity. She had imagined this moment plenty of times - hell, hardly a night lost - and in her head she’d always been cool, collected, getting after it without a hitch. Now that he was in front of her, she realized with a touch of alarm that she had lost more of her self control than she’d realized, and Athur Morgan’s face swam before her, lifelike in its potency, gone from this world because of the man standing before her. Someone she had loved more than she loved the life in her chest, for the little while that she’d known him. Another future snatched away from her with impunity, by some hateful outsider who couldn’t just leave her alone, leaving her in darkness and uncertainty. It was only Sadie, who was perceptive as well as quick, that stopped her from rushing forward. She snatched Rane’s shirt, yanking her backward, forceful.

“Wait, Rane. _Wait_.” Sadie's voice was sharp and cool. "Get your scrawny ass on back here and _wait_ , I said."

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” Rane moaned, glaring at Micah, her voice rough with grief and rage. She had not expected this visceral reaction, and in that moment she realized how profoundly she had wished to find him, something she had spoken aloud to almost no one besides Sadie and John the night before. She could feel the sting of furious tears in her eyes as she glared at him. “You son of a _bitch_ , what you did. . .”

“Well, would you look at what fell outta the dog’s ass!” Micah was crowing, looking highly amused. He strolled before the little cabin, smiling broadly, eyeing the three of them, arms held out. “I believe I spy three folks I mighta recognized a few years ago, don’t I? Let’s see here . . .” He aimed a finger. “Sadie Adler . . . John Marston, ol' Scarface . . .”

Micah laughed heartily, his eyes falling on Rane, who was watching him motionlessly, her eyes fixed on him beneath her brows, breathing quickly.

“And Rane fuckin’ goddamned _Roth_ , as I live and breathe! Ol' Eyebrows! _And_ her fancy sword! Last time I saw you, you was shot through the belly and all outta sorts, rollin’ around and cussin’ in the snow!”

Rane said nothing, only glared at him silently. Micah saw the expression on her face and cast her a mournful look, frowning beneath his mustache.

“Aww, now don't tell me you're still mad at me about your old boyfriend or somethin’?”

Rane stared at him, very still. “My old boyfriend.”

“Well, it’s been a couple years, ain’t it? Surely you found a new one? Hell, he wasn’t so special, that big ol’ grumpy, ugly son of a bitch with his scrawny little -”

“Oh, honey.” Rane shook her head gently, her voice very soft. “Oh, you be careful, what you say next. You be real, real careful.”

Micah spread his arms, looking amused. “Oh, well I didn’t mean to cause you any _grief_ when I knocked that cranky old bastard on his ass up there on that mountain, but even _you_ gotta admit, he was a dead man walkin’ _long_ before I came around, I just sorta helped him out the door! Hell, you oughta thank me, really, they call that euthanasia in some places -!”

“ASSHOLE!” Rane shouted, starting forward. Sadie and John both snatched at her shirt, yanking her backwards. Micah was laughing, slapping his knee.

“Boy, she always was a live wire, wasn’t she?” Micah was leering at John, still grinning. “How’s that, uh, whore of yours, Scarface?”

John stilled, watching him with an expression so predatory that Sadie wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d lit out on the man right then and there.

“She’s fine. Real good. Didn’t reckon I should waste my time killin’ ya.”

“So you found two more to decide you different, I guess.”

“You shut your fucking mouth, Micah Bell,” said Rane, slowly and clearly, enunciating each word.

“Please, girl, you’re all washed up.” Micah waved a dismissive hand at Rane, scoffing. “I heard about you runnin’ around takin’ bounties in Ambarino like some common criminal, you don’t scare me none. What is it they call ya now? _Blackguard_? I seen rodents with more teeth than -”

“OH, YOU HEARD ABOUT ME TAKING BOUNTIES, HUH?” Rane shouted, suddenly strident. “MAYBE YOU HEARD WHAT I DO WITH THEM WHEN THEY GET SMART WITH ME, THEN, HUH?”

She had taken two steps forward, her sword aimed at Micah, and for all his bombast his posture tightened as he fixed a sharp, wary gaze on her, training both his revolvers at once and thumbing back each hammer.

“Now, don’t you go and do nothin’ foolish, girl,” said Micah, his eyes cold. “Because I don’t mind killin’ you, not even a bit, and I believe got an itchy trigger finger this morning. You all comin' up on me this way and disturbing my breakfast, I ain't feeling so accommodating.”

“I seem to remember your aim wasn’t so great.”

Micah laughed loudly. “Oh, you pretty little idiot. I guess maybe we misremember each other, huh?”

"Maybe so.” Rane was still eyeing him, her long hair wavering around her face. “You want another crack? Come on. Have at it. I’m happy to see you down.”

“You ain’t seein’ nothin’ except my ass when I’m walking away, and that’s gonna be the _last_ thing you see,” said Micah, and then he was firing and all hell broke loose.

  
  


JOHN and Sadie dove backwards out of the line of fire at once, and not a moment too soon. Rane, slowed by anger and alcohol, was not quick enough to evade Micah, and for the second time in their tenure, his bullet hit its mark where many others had not; the shot ripped through her high in her chest, and she staggered backwards, clutching her shirt, sucking her teeth. Blood smattered onto the snow at her feet, shockingly bright, red against white.

“Oh, god _fuckin’_ dammit, Rane!” Sadie hissed, alarmed. Micah was firing on them with impunity now, lunging in and out of cover behind the scant shed beyond. “John _told_ you to quit boozin’, girl -!”

“I’m fine,” Rane snapped. And listening to her, one might even have believed this; she was ducking behind the pile of ancient crates beside Sadie and John, spry and deft as a cricket, her face long with concentration and terribly lovely in the low light, both hands gripping the helm of her sword with tight, fearsome acuity. Only the steady patter of blood dropping from her chest and staining her shirt was indicative of her injury. “He just winged me, stay on him. STAY on him, Mister Marston, don’t you let this fucker get away on my account!” she added sharply as John made as if to protest, casting him an imperious look. He shut his mouth, scowling.

“You’re _shot_!”

“And you’re a hippy. Cut your hair.” Rane lifted her voice, turning from him. “Micah, come on out here nice and polite, we don’t need to be -!”

She was interrupted by a bullet striking near her shoulder, spraying shards of wood hither and yon. Micah was laughing.

“'Come on out,' she says! I already done shot you once!"

"Barely!"

"She is beauty, she is grace, she will punch you in your face! That's what Bill used to say about ya! But right now she ain't even comin' outta her hidey hole!"

"She would most certainly _like_ to punch you in your face. She would like to put her foot up your ass, as a matter of -"

"Come on over here, then!" Micah crowed tauntingly. "I ain't gonna bite ya!"

Rane groaned, low, rubbing her face. "Fucking asshole."

"We'll take him from cover," said John bracingly. "He'll fuck up sooner or later -"

"Rane, please, now don't you go do nothin' else foolish," Sadie added sharply, glaring at her. "We need you in one piece and you already done took a bullet as it is -"

Micah's voice came to them again, high and chiding. “What’s the matter, _Blackguard_? You gettin’ skittish in your old age? I never knew you to be the hidin’ sort! You musta spent too long around ol’ Black Lung for your own damn good, gettin’ all low and hiding away when trouble turns up - !”

Rane rose at this, her sword flying before her, eyes bright and cold beneath her brows, and Micah began to fire on her as soon as she broke cover. John grasped at her, sucking his teeth in alarm, but his fingers skated over the slippery, damp fabric of her shirt, and later, he wondered if things might have been different if he’d gotten his hands on her in that moment and pulled her back into cover. Perhaps they would have been, or perhaps not; her blood was high, and even injured she was quite as lawless as she'd always been, lean-hipped and agile and covered from shoulder to knee in her own blood, beautiful and completely unafraid.

And in the end, it was a moot point. She was out of his reach in the space of a second, her sword flying before her, but she was moving strangely, almost apathetically, and as she approached Micah she was sending his gunfire away from her stolidly, not taking particular care, and a few of his shots missed her blade and stuck her. She was hit in the shoulder, and then the hip, in quick succession as she approached him, the bullets exiting her body in sprays of blood, and though her face cramped a little, she gave no other indication that she was struck. Now, as John watched her with his brow furrowed, he realized, suddenly and shockingly, why she had been so easy about the bullet that had gone through her chest; she simply didn’t care, not anymore, and her focus was on Micah Bell and nothing else. Woe unto him, if he thought she feared for her own hide, he thought. Woe unto him.

“You think that gun can help you?” Rane asked him as she drew near, her sword hung before here, and with her free hand knocked the leftmost one from Micah’s hand. It landed with a clatter in the snow. “You better think again, you -”

She backhanded him, hard, landing him in the snow, and then aimed her sword at his throat, straddling him. Micah took his remaining gun in both hands and aimed it at her, thumbing back the hammer, breathing harshly through his nose.

“You don’t dare,” he breathed, eyeing her. “You put that down.”

“HEY!”

Rane, Micah, John and Sadie all turned, surprised. Dutch Van Der Linde stood at the entrance to their little shack, guns drawn, looking around them. He was older, more worn, and his fancy, fastidiously maintained chinstrap had been traded in for a full one, but it was him, no question. He was looking at John, his mouth turned down, panting.

“Dutch?” said John, sounding quite shocked.

“Hello, son. Hello, Missus Adler.” Dutch nodded at Sadie. He met Rane’s eyes. “Hello, Rane. How are ya?”

Rane eyed him over Micah, her eyes cold. She was bleeding steadily from several places, and the snow around her was dark with it. Her eyes were red, her mouth downturned, breathing a little roughly.

“I’ve been better,” she whispered, her voice wavering a little.

“You don't look so good, honey,” Dutch muttered.

“What are you here for?” John asked loudly, jerking his gun at Dutch.

Dutch shrugged. “Same as you, I suppose.”

“Dutch and I are teaming up once more,” Micah cried from where he was lying beneath Rane, hands up. “We got money . . . we got dreams. Now if I could get this bleeding ol' bitch off of my ass, I'd be a little happier,” he added, eyeing Dutch from the snow. "She ain't thinkin' straight, Dutch."

A moment of silence passed between them; Rane, lingering over Micah with her sword aimed at his chest, Micah aiming his gun at her, Dutch training both his weapons at Rane and John, Sadie in semi-cover, guns on both Micah and Dutch. The wind was cold and whistling around them.

“Dutch . . .” John was looking at him, his face cramping, becoming a little childlike. In that moment he was the boy he had been when Dutch had come across him, innocent and unaffected, seeking succor in the man he had come to see as a father years prior. “Come on now, Dutch . . .”

Dutch met his gaze, frowning, and the gun in his hand trembled a little.

"Son, I am sorry for what happened," he said gently, his voice very soft. "I am sorry for what happened to Arthur, I truly am."

Rane threw him a sudden, fierce look, her eyes flashing. "DON'T YOU SAY HIS NAME!" And then, aiming her free hand, her mouth turned down and her eyes bright: "IT WAS _YOUR FAULT_ , DUTCH! _YOUR_ FAULT, WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM!"

Dutch looked at her, shaking his head a little. "I cannot take responsibility for -"

"NO, I BET YOU CAN'T!" Rane was crying a little now, her mouth turned down, her voice hard and coarse, echoing off the snowy mountainside. "I'VE LOOKED FOR YOU FOR YEARS, JUST TO TELL YOU THAT, and I ALWAYS KNEW what your answer would be! I KNEW! NOTHING WAS _EVER_ YOUR FAULT, DUTCH!"

"Rane, Arthur's been dead a long time."

“THANKS TO YOU!” Rane shouted, jerking her sword at Micah. "AND HIM!"

“Girl, you were always too SOFT!” Micah shouted at her, the cords in his neck standing out. “Always soft with the way you FELT! That man didn’t care NOTHIN’ FOR YOU, LET ALONE JOHN!”

Rane knelt, placing the edge of her blade against Micah’s throat, and leaned in close, letting their faces grow so near she could smell the sour tang of his breath. She met his eyes with her own, her mouth relaxed, her hair hanging around his face, trembling a little in her fury. Her breath was coming roughly now, and her shoulders were sinking, her stance becoming weak - she'd been shot many times, and it was starting to take its toll - but she kept her gaze firm and true nevertheless.

“Oh, Micah fuckin’ Bell,” she sad softly, her mouth hanging just in front of his own, smiling a little. “Oh, you’re about to meet your maker, so I think you might should mind your manners -”

“I DON’T MIND NO VOODOO BITCH!” Micah shouted into her face, spittle flying from his mouth, cheeks reddening. “YOU HEAR ME? I HOPE YOUR SHIT-STAINED BLACKLUNG SQUEEZE BURNS IN HELL!”

Rane rose from him, flinging her sword around her wrist once, and with an expression of almost clinical poise plunged her blade into Micah’s chest. He gasped, coughing out a mouthful of blood, staring up at her with wide eyes.

“ARTHUR MORGAN!” she shouted, meeting his gaze, panting. “HIS NAME WAS ARTHUR MORGAN! GO TO HELL THINKING ON IT!”

As he did so Dutch pulled both his guns around and fired on her. She was fast, but not fast enough; she parried one of the bullets with her sword, almost offhandedly - it flew wayward, striking a tree nearby in a spray of splinters - but the other went into her right chest, not four inches from the last one. She had been shot some six times now, but she wasn’t out of strength yet; she twirled her sword around her arm one more time and then threw it, letting it fly at Dutch. She had never thrown her weapon this way, but her aim was true enough. It went, whistling, and took him high in the throat, and he clutched at it for a moment, looking utterly shocked, then keeled backwards, arms flailing, and fell down dead, blood flowing from his neck.

This done, Rane stood where she was for a moment, looking at his body in silence, staggering a little, blood running from the multiple wounds in her torso, then with an awkward little pinwheel of her hands she fell down into the snow. John and Sadie both broke cover at once, making for her.

“Hey, hey, Rane, oh Jesus Christ -!”

John skidded to a stop at her side, snow and dirt flying, and grasped her shirt, meeting her gaze. She looked up at him, her eyes skating over his, brows descended, looking terribly beautiful in the low light as the snow continued to light upon them. “Hey, Rane, now, hang on, you’re okay -”

“Hey, take it easy,” said Rane softly, grasping one of his hands gently in her own. Her touch was soft, weak and cool. “Dutch and Micah -”

“They’re dead, Rane, you killed ‘em both dead.”

“Oh fuck.” Rane laughed softly, shaking her head. “Oh man, that’s three . . . that’s three years gone now I’ve wanted . . . I’ve wanted to . . .”

Her breath was slowing now, and Sadie stood behind John’s shoulder, both guns still drawn, breathing hard and watching this, her brows knitted. John shook her a little, kneeling closer to her.

“Hey, where you goin’?” he asked her, his mouth turning up a little, but his eyes were running with tears and his breath was hitching as he looked down at her. She was shot up badly, and the snow around her was red with her blood. And she didn’t have her wand, not anymore. “You got some work to do yet.”

“Aww.” Rane reached up with one trembling hand and touched John’s cheek, offering him a wan smile. “Look at you, Wyatt Earp. You’re alright.”

“I told ya, I don’t know who that is.”

“I know you don’t,” said Rane softly, meeting his eyes. Her breath was slowing. “You take it easy for me, John Marston, okay? You . . . you just . . . just take it easy. Don’t make me come back down . . . down here and put my f- . . . . foot up . . .”

“Rane, please don’t say shit like that to me,” said John softly, and now he was crying openly. “I can’t do this, I surely can't. You can't come show up again this way and then take off.”

Rane smiled. Her eyes were lidded now. “Yeah, you can.”

John was weeping openly now, his mouth turned down. “I love you.”

Rane laughed, meeting his eyes, then they slipped closed, and her hand fell away from his cheek.

“Go home, John Marston” she murmured. “You’re gonna be okay now, I think.”

And then she was silent, and her chest stilled as the snow continued to fall over her, lighting on her eyelashes gently in the cold.


	66. The Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadie and John place Rane somewhere she can rest

  
  


_The roses have faded_

_There's frost at my door_

_The birds in the morning_

_Don't sing anymore_

_The grass in the valley_

_Is starting to die_

_And out in the darkness_

_The whippoorwills cry_

_Alone and forsaken_

_By fate and by man_

_Oh, lord if you hear me,_

_Please hold my hand_

_Oh, please understand._

  * Hank Williams



  
______________________________

“John. Hey, come on, now. We can’t stay here.”

John didn’t look up. He was knelt before Rane Roth, one hand over his eyes. He was weeping steadily and silently, his shoulders shaking, his face turned down to the growing snow. Micah Bell lay just beyond her, shells littering around him, and so, too, did Dutch Van Der Linde, slumped against the little hacienda, Rane’s sword still protruding from his throat, both hands lying palms-up toward the sky. The snow fell slowly around them, thickening the air above. All was silent and still, save the gentle sound of John sobbing under his breath and the faint call of crows down the mountain somewhere.

“Hey.” Sadie bent and touched John’s shoulder. He jumped as if goosed, his breath hitching. “Honey, we gotta get outta here, before more of ‘em show up.”

“God dammit, Sadie, god _damn_ her,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Why in the hell couldn’t she just have _listened_ to me? I told her not to do somethin’ rash, I _told_ her, but she just don’t _listen_ . . .”

Sadie’s stomach cramped. His voice was callow in his devastation, so unlike him it was almost foreign. He was on the back end of his twenties, but he didn’t look much older than twelve in that moment. He had removed Arthur’s hat and let it fall next to him, exposing his whole face, and his dark hair was sweaty and stuck to his cheeks. Sadie knelt beside him in the snow.

“John Marston,” she said softly, and pulled the hand he’d placed on Rane’s gently into both of her own, “honey, listen, she’s gone to her reward, she ain’t gonna get up no more. And I’ll tell ya somethin’ else, I believe that she’d be pissed off as hell if she saw you over here fretting after her this way.”

John didn’t laugh; he remained where he was, his head low. Sadie leaned forward and drew him into her arms, something she had never done before. She expected him to resist her, but he accepted her embrace willingly enough, slumping against her as if all the strength had gone out of him. Sadie patted his shoulder, feeling a little out of her element.

“I know it, John. I hate to see it, too.”

“Seemed like she just let it happen, Sadie, right at the end there. Like she just . . .” John gestured vaguely, his voice thick. “Just let the both of ‘em shoot her down. Just let ‘em.”

Sadie had seen this, too, but she shook her head gently nonetheless. “She didn’t either.”

“No, no, today I saw her hook a big-bore sniper bullet like it was a goddamn fly from fifty yards or somethin’. Don’t you try to tell me she couldn’t protect herself. She _let_ that happen, Sadie.” John shook his head, rubbing angrily at his face. “Goddamn her, she _let_ that happen just now, she _let_ it.”

Sadie looked between him and Rane, chewing her lip. At length she leaned forward, moving with an almost reticent tenderness, and unhooked Rane's belt, pulling it gently away from her lean waist. It was blessedly unmarked with her blood, something Sadie was fiercely glad for. If any had gotten on it, she'd have had to scrub it off before bringing it along with them, and that was a rather horrible idea to entertain.

“Grab her sword out of that big dumb asshole. I’m gonna collect her and then we’re gonna get the fuck outta here.”

“What about Dutch?”

“Fuck Dutch,” Sadie said softly, echoing Rane’s sentiments earlier that day. “He was gunnin’ for us same as Micah. Let him lie. He made his bed years ago.”

“I’ll get her, you don't have to do it - ”

“No you damn well won’t. Go on.” Sadie flapped a hand at him firmly. “She ain’t gonna be heavy, you coulda stood her sideways and hid her behind a zipper, little old thing. I got her.”

John got to his feet slowly, but he was still looking down at Rane, his face cramped. She lay silent and still, her face lax and rather lovely in the low light, her dark hair strewn and her blood smattered all around in the snow. Sadie grasped John’s arm, drawing his gaze to her own. She didn’t want him looking at Rane right this second.

“We’re gonna put her up next to Arthur and bury her proper, like I bet she’d have wanted,” she said gently. “We ain’t gonna let her lay here in the snow next to the likes of these two.”

John was nodding. “Yeah. Alright.”

“I need you to pull yourself together. There are likely more fellers in these hills, we might not have an easy time getting off this mountain.”

“Okay.” He was still staring down at Rane. Sadie didn’t like this.

“Hey, look at me a sec.”

John met her gaze, his eyes bloodshot, frowning.

“Honey, let’s get this sweet girl down the mountainside, okay? I can see you’re all discombobulated. Hell, I am too,” she added, and meant it. “That was fuckin’ awful, forgive my mouth. But we gotta go. It ain't doing you no good to sit there staring at her and making yourself feel worse.”

John nodded, seeming to steel himself.

“Now go on and get your horse ride-ready. I don’t want you lookin’ while I put her on Hera.”

  
  


HE did, in the end. Sadie didn’t have much issue lifting Rane onto her horse - she was thin indeed, and death seemed to have lightened her even further. It felt a little undignified to throw her over the back of Hera belly-down like a common criminal, but there just wasn’t much choice, and because Sadie didn’t think it would do John any favors if her face was visible for him to look on whenever he glanced over, she pulled Hera’s blanket from beneath the saddle and draped it over Rane’s body. It was crude, but it would have to do.

She had one foot in the stirrup when Eli showed up. The clopping of his hooves alerted her first, soft and steady in the snow, and Sadie and John both whirled around, drawing, expecting another mounted gunner.

“God fuckin’ _dammit_ \- !”

Eli was standing near the trail’s mouth, both ears laid back, tacked and bridled and carrying what were likely all that remained of Rane's earthly belongings in his saddlebags. Sadie stowed her pistol again, allowing her heartbeat to slow a little and feeling a trifle foolish.

“Oh, _hellfire_. That horse gave me the fright of my life, John, I thought it was another one.”

“Fuck. He musta followed us.” John was looking at Eli too, frowning. “I forgot all about him. Watch your fingers, he'll take 'em off, you're not careful.”

But Eli clopped toward Sadie meekly enough, and bypassing John and Rachel without a glance he placed his muzzle against the body on the back of Hera, sniffing, ears still pinned unhappily back. After a moment he lifted his head, looking at Sadie with an expression of something like entreaty. She felt a cramp of sympathy.

“Think he knows?” she remarked, low.

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t.” John clicked his tongue gently, gesturing. Snippy or not, he couldn't bear to see the stallion suffer without offering some comfort. “Eli, c’mere, fella. Come on.”

Eli turned to John’s voice, ears pricking, and made for him at once. He put his muzzle against John’s outstretched hand quite willingly, something he had never done before; he had always been rather obdurately skittish with anyone besides Rane. John stroked him gently, his eyes stinging a little again as he looked at the stallion. He had spent his whole life around horses, since he was knee high to a grasshopper, and he knew a grieving animal when he saw one. It made Rane’s death more concrete, somehow, to see Eli seeking succor from a stranger this way.

Sadie must have seen this for what it was as well, because when she spoke again her voice had taken on a notable thickness. “Throw a rope around that creature, John, we can’t just leave him out here, poor beast. Hell.” She swiped at her face with the heels of her hands. “Bunch of goddamn bullshit today. I shoulda just stayed home.”

“Aw, I bet he don’t need a rope.” John scrubbed his fingers through Eli’s mane. “Where she goes, you follow, don’t ya? Well, I bet you weren’t the first. Come on, boy.”

He was right; Eli needed no lasso to accompany them. He clopped after the two of them mildly enough, his head hung low, keeping close to Hera and therefore to Rane. Though neither John nor Sadie spoke of it, both of their eyes fell on him frequently as he padded meekly after them, his breath coming in white puffs from his nostrils, ears lay back. The sight of him - a hardy and rather aggressive animal, so broken and subdued by the loss of his mistress - seemed to summarize everything that had happened that morning, somehow. John had pulled Arthur’s hat firmly over his face, low, and though he didn’t weep anymore - he had been raised to believe men ought not engage in that sort of behavior, especially not in the presence of another - his eyes were frequently drawn to the blanketed form on the back of Hera. He could not remember feeling so grieved, not since Arthur, and it was strange and unpleasant. Dutch, too, a man who’d raised him up from a boy. How did a man reconcile losing two friends on the same day, and so violently? And one whom he’d loved in the secret recesses of his heart, no less? 

“I think I sorta know the spot,” said Sadie at length, sounding a bit gruff.

“You mean where Arthur -?”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. I just don’t like to say it right out loud.”

“So she's going into the ground next to him. That what you think?"

Sadie coughed, hoarse, but John recognized the sob hidden beneath it well enough. She shook her head, avoiding his eyes.

“Yeah, I believe I do, and I don’t wanna talk no more about it. This has been a hard morning, John.”

The spot where Arthur was buried was covered in snow, same as the rest. The two of them came upon it not long later, Sadie navigating the mountainside from memory. It was untouched by man or beast, and the marker placed above him was standing as firm as its owner ever had. Together, Sadie and John dismounted and dug a hole beside where Arthur was laid to rest with the heels of their hands and the butts of their guns. The ground was still relatively soft from the warmth of the spring so far. Eli stood by, watching with his ears pricked.

“That’s good enough,” said John at length, getting to his feet and arming sweat from his brow with his filthy hands. He’d discarded his heavy duster for the work, and he was lean and young and handsome in the falling snow as he stood breathing quickly over the grave. “No use goin' further down.”

“Yeah, I reckon not.” Sadie looked at the hole they’d made, breathing a little hard herself. “You wanna do the honors, Mister Marston?”

He did. It was a strangely Herculean feat to lift Rane off Hera - she was limp, beginning to stiffen, all her former bluster and hubris departed at last - but he did it anyways, pulling her into his arms and holding her close to his chest, pulling the saddle blanket away from her and casting it overtop Hera without fanfare. He clutched her to his chest for a moment before he deposited her, eyeing her with a furrowed brow. She was terribly beautiful, even blood-smeared and still, and after a moment he bent and placed a gentle kiss on her cool forehead. Eli did not approach, but he watched from a distance, and as John strode away he lifted his head and loosed a long, loud whinny that echoed off the mountainside. It was clearly enough his own goodbye.

John laid her into the dirt gently, staggering a little to do it, and once she was in her final spot he hoisted himself back onto the snowy earth, standing beside Sadie.

"I don't like to leave her just . . . just _there_ , like that, in the dirt," John remarked, low. The truth - one he wasn't prepared to utter aloud - was that the idea of the soil raining down on her closed eyelids, getting into her mouth, maybe, was almost too awful to entertain. "Maybe my coat -"

"Nah, keep your coat." Sadie turned, pulling the blanket off Hera's saddle. "I was planning on throwing this damn thing out anyways. It's got her blood all over it, I couldn't bear to use it ever again after this morning."

She shook the blanket out and let it drift down over Rane, obscuring her from their sight for the last time.

“Okay.” Sadie was weeping steadily now, something she had not done since Jake. “Let's cover her up. She’s next to him now.”

They did, slowly, taking their time. When she was beneath the ground, Sadie stepped back, looking down, her arms crossed over her chest. John had removed Arthur's hat and held it against his chest. They stood before the two graves, silent, the snow falling around them.

“I think I loved her, Sadie.”

Sadie sighed roughly, running her filthy hand over her face. “I know you did, John, it wasn't exactly a secret.”

John gestured inarticulately to the freshly tilled dirt, where snow was already beginning to fall. “Shit. I don’t believe I know what to do with it.”

Sadie grasped his shoulder. "You'll find a place to put it, John. I'm speaking from experience. Just gotta think on the good parts, not how it was at the end." She hesitated, a wan smile touching her lips. "You remember that first night you and me and her went into Saint Denis?"

John laughed, choked. "You hated her all the way down to your boots back then."

"Ah, only because I worried about you and Abigail. She grew on me. She wasn't so tough."

"Nah, she sure wasn't," John agreed, and wiped at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I get why Arthur liked her. Both of 'em were real good at acting all hard."

"What was it Dutch used to say? Arthur was a little tree that cast a big shadow? Somethin' like that?"

John scoffed with real vitriol. "Yeah, well that was bullshit. Arthur was a big tree. So was Rane. Maybe that was why they got on so well."

Sadie looked over at him, examining his grim profile, and reaching out drew him against her gently, squeezing his shoulders. After a moment she broke away and pulled Rane’s sword from where it hung on her saddle.

“Here.” She thrust the holstered weapon into John’s hands. “Don’t you say you don’t want it, either.”

"I don't know what you think I'm gonna do with this, I ain't never swung a weapon like this in my life."

"I haven't either, but I don't think anybody else oughta have it, and we sure as hell ain't leavin' it here so some asshole can snatch it up and pawn it off for bar change." Sadie pressed it insistently into his arms. " _Take_ it, John Marston. She'd like it, I think."

John took the sword in both hands - it was surprisingly heavy, the leather holster rough and ancient beneath his palms. “Alright, fine, I'll keep it. I guess that’s it, Sadie, she didn't have too much else to her name from the looks of it.”

“No, that ain’t quite it, yet.”

Sadie was looking at Eli. John followed his gaze. As they watched, Eli clopped at last to where Rane was buried, then with a laborious motion he knelt and lay there, ears pinned. This done, he turned his gaze from them, staring off across the landscape, the snowfall lighting in his black mane.

“Oh, boy. Don’t that hurt to look at.” Sadie’s voice was thicker than ever, but she had ceased to care. Her cheeks were damp with tears now anyways. Fuck it. “Poor damn beast, don’t know what to do.”

“If he decides to stay, he'll stay,” said John gently, watching Eli. The stallion lowered his head as they looked, allowing it to rest on the snowy, freshly tilled earth beneath which his mistress lay. “It’s gotta be his choice. I won’t drag him away, Sadie, it don’t seem right.”

“I know.” Sadie sighed roughly, shaking her head. “John, where the hell did it all go so sideways? I never thought I’d see the end of that girl.”

John opened his mouth to answer this, then felt a break coming and lowered his head into both hands, trying to stifle the sob that emerged. Sadie was too perceptive to miss it and grasped his shoulder gently.

“Oh boy, I didn't, either,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I surely never did. I never thought I’d see the end of either one of ‘em.”

“You wanna say somethin’?” Sadie asked him gently, glancing over at him.

John shook his head, his eyes full of tears. “No. I believe she said enough while she was around to last us all.”

Sadie laughed, low. “Yeah, she did surely do that.”

She held him close, and together they stood before the graves of Arthur Morgan and Rane Roth, as Eli lay next to the markers and the snow continued to fall. Though neither spoke anymore as they remained there, both wept steadily in the growing night. It was a hard blow for them all.


	67. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Marston gets back to it

_When your love has moved away,_

_You must face yourself and you must say,_

_“I remember better days.”_

_Don't you cry 'cause she is gone,_

_She is only moving on,_

_Chasing mirrors through a haze._

_Now that you know it's nowhere,_

_What's to stop you coming home?_

_All you got to do is go there,_

_Then you'll really realize what's going down._

_You went to a strange land searching_

_For a truth you felt was wrong._

_That's when the heartaches started._

_Though you're where you want to be, you're not where you belong._

  * **Graham Nash**



___________________________________

Sadie and John mounted their horses after the task of burying Rane Roth beside Arthur Morgan was completed, but they didn’t start the trek down Mount Hagen, though neither spoke aloud why they hedged. John lit a cigarette and placed a hand on his hip, trying to appear aloof, and Sadie made a bit of a business of straightening the saddle blanket on Hera’s back beneath her.

In truth, they were both waiting on Eli; neither wanted to leave him alone on the mountain, but it seemed wrong to force him to come away. He was still lying over Rane’s grave, his heavy hooves curled beneath him, his mane hanging in his face, ears back and eyes lidded, his flaring nostrils disturbing little puffs of dusty snow before him. He was quite still save the flex of his breath in his sides and the twitch of his eyelashes. The snow continued to fall relentlessly, and it lit upon him from forehead to hindquarters. It was accumulating fast now, covering even the freshly turned earth where they’d dug their hole.

At length, John could stand it no longer. He clicked his tongue, slapping his thigh gently.

“Come on, Eli. Gee’up.”

Eli made no indication that he had heard John, save a gentle twitch of his ear. John whistled loudly through his teeth.

"Eli. Come _on_ , I said."

This did the trick. Eli turned his head toward John at last, blinking against the falling snow; after a moment he got laboriously to his feet at last and padded toward John, long tail swishing behind him. He had decided to go on, then. It was a small thing, but it was heartening to see, a little spot of light on that dark morning. Sadie sighed with clear relief at John’s side.

“Goddamn horse,” she remarked with unmistakable affection. “Come on, John. I don’t care to linger here any longer.”

The ride back down was laden with a heavy silence, broken only by the clopping of hooves and the occasional call of crows overhead. It was getting toward afternoon now, and John felt a weird, deep dread of the evening coming that was becoming difficult to deny. His mind lingered on the sun setting, and the drawing darkness of the first night without Rane Roth in the world. It was a strange notion, because he had spent so many before thinking she was already long gone. Perhaps it was the surety of the thing. He dreaded facing Abigail, and being unable to hide his grief. He dreaded the long hours between dusk and dawn when he would surely lie awake, ruminating on Dutch Van Der Linde, and Micah Bell, and Arthur Morgan, and Rane Roth, and even goddamned Eli, the sight of him lying over her grave, the fetlocks of his hooves tangled with the raw dirt of her grave, guarding his mistress even in death. The idea of taking a room in a hotel in Valentine and getting sloppy drunk had occurred to him more than once.

“Hey, lemme ask you somethin’, John.”

John turned toward Sadie. She was smirking a little beneath her hat, the snow falling around her.

“What?”

“You remember that night she was in camp and she scared the livin’ shit outta Micah?”

John watched her profile for a moment, bewildered by the smile spreading across his own face, then snorted in spite of himself. “Yeah, I sure do.”

“Oh man, he shit his damn pants.” Sadie was laughing a little, low. “And after she reamed Molly O’Shea, Dutch’s ol’ girl, rest her soul. Boy, oh boy, wasn’t that a show.”

“Yeah, it was a show, alright.” John’s laugh grew a little stouter at the memory. “The look on his face after she hooked them bullets. Boy, oh boy.”

He pulled an ersatz expression of surprise, slapping a hand against his cheek. Sadie snorted.

“Arthur fell right over the damn chair he was sittin’ on, he was so damned surprised -”

“And ol' Sean swan-divin' like his life depended on it, don’t forget that part, sprayed his damn drink all over poor ol’ Hosea -!”

Sadie was laughing now, too. “Oh, lord, he surely did!”

“What about her magickin’ birds at folks passin’ by in Saint Denis, scarin’ em all shitless in the wee hours while we was all wasted drunk -?”

“Oh hell, that was the same night them fellers tried to wipe my memory, wasn't it?" Sadie was laughing openly now. "Reminds me of that time you got your damn fool self arrested and we had to come get ya . . . boy, you shoulda _heard_ the sort of shit she was talkin’ when we snuck into Sisika, John . . .”

“Yeah, well.” John was rubbing his mouth, his smile fading a little. “She was sure somethin’, wasn’t she? Strange damn weird ol’ girl.”

“Pretty, though,” Sadie remarked, throwing a look at him that seemed meant to be sardonic but fell a little flat against the grief between them. “Damn pretty girl, crazy or no.”

“She surely was.” John’s voice had thickened a little, and he let it lie at this. They had reached a fork in the road, and Sadie heeled her horse as they reached it, facing Hera for the opposite direction. John glanced at her, surprised.

“What’re you doin’? Ranch is west, girl.”

“Yeah, I know it is, John Marston.” Sadie slipped off her horse and stood in the dusty road, her blond hair over one shoulder, looking at him wryly. She pulled her hat off with one hand, letting it hang on her neck, exposing her whole face to him. “I ain’t goin’ that way.”

John pulled Rachel to a stop too, sliding off the saddle and approaching her, his brow furrowed, confused. “You _ain’t_?”

“No, I ain’t.” Sadie licked her thumb and ran it over his cheek, smiling a little. “You’re filthy from all that gunsmoke and fightin’, boy, you might wanna clean up before you get home.”

“Where are you gonna go, then?”

Sadie shrugged. “On.”

“On where?”

“Wherever it takes me, I suppose.” Sadie reached out and grasped John’s hands in both of her own, then reached up and kissed his cheek, something she had never done before. "I got a different road in front of me now, John, and it ain't the same one you're on anymore."

John was frowning at her, his brow knit. He pulled Arthur's hat off and held it in front of his chest, feeling a strange sensation of chagrin at this. The corners of his mouth were turned down and his eyes were bright. "Sadie, no, come on, now. You can't do that, not right now."

Sadie shook her head, grasping his shoulder. “You’re gonna be alright, Mister Marston, I believe Rane had it right. You’ve had enough activity for a little bit, you need to go be with Abigail and Jack.”

John nodded slowly, recognizing it for the farewell it was, and felt a heaviness in his chest that rivaled that of losing Rane. He squeezed her hands.

“You ain’t comin' back again, are ya?” he asked her, a little thickly.

Sadie shook her head, meeting his eyes. “I believe we gotta part ways now, John, you gotta go on to your own makings. And that’s probably best for each of us, and for your family. Jackie and Abigail, that's for you now. The rest of this is all done and dusted now Micah and Dutch are gone. You know it as well as I do. That was the last little bit of it that had to be laid down.”

“Now, you don’t have to -”

“Yeah, I do, honey.” Sadie was nodding, pursing her lips. “It’s okay, that’s the way of things, is all. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with movin’ on.”

John watched her for a long moment, his brow still knitted, unhappy and still. At length he nodded, shifting his weight, lips pursed.

“Alright, then.”

He pulled her to him and hugged her briefly, relishing her closeness. She allowed this for only a moment - they were both tough cards, at the end of the day - then released him and held him at arm’s length, her eyes a little bright.

“You stay safe and be good with that ol’ ranchin’ farmer life, Johnny boy,” she said softly, and patted his stubbly cheek with one hand, a little briskly. John laughed, low. “Keep that family safe. And keep that sword of Rane’s, I bet it’s worth somethin’ someplace.”

“It’s worth somethin’ with me, and that’s the only place it’s goin’,” John replied solemnly.

“Atta boy.”

With this Sadie Adler turned, not looking back, and mounting Hera she pulled her around and kicked her into a canter. She rode east, out of the falling snow, and John watched her go until they were out of sight, evident only by the hoofprints in the snow, already fading.

John Marston rode up on Pronghorn Ranch some half an hour later, Rachel stepping briskly between his legs. He had composed himself by then, and the snow had stopped falling, replaced now by a gentle, lukewarm rain, but Arthur’s hat was still pulled low over his forehead, and Abigail was in the front yard of the ranch house, pulling weeds from the Spring vegetable garden with her dresses hitched up over her knees. As he tied Rachel and dismounted, she spotted him and rose, smoothing her skirts and starting for him. Eli was trotting some ways behind, reticent, ears pricked. He'd followed John since Sadie had departed.

“John?" Abigail had drawn flush with him, her eyes on Eli. "What the hell . . . whose horse is that? Did you buy another horse or somethin'?”

John turned, and in both hands he held the blade out to her. She recoiled a little at the sight of it, stopping short and eyeing this spectacle; John Marston, Arthur Morgan’s hat pulled low on his head, with Rane Roth’s sheathed sword held in both hands before him, as if in succor. Abigail’s eyes turned from the sword to John, her face falling a little lax. She recognized it well enough, and when she spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

“Oh, John. Did they get her?”

John nodded, and then, abruptly, dropping the sword to the dusty ground with a clang, he fell to his knees, his head dropping between his shoulders. Abigail fell before him, and with one hand pushed the sword out of the way, into the dust beside them. With the other she drew him nearer to her, and pressed her lips to his sweaty brow.

“Honey,” she whispered, and curled her arms around him. Rane Roth’s blade lay forgotten beside them in the dirt. “You c’mere, sir. Quit that, now, you tell me just what happened.”

John nodded against her, burying his face in her shoulder and holding her close. “Okay, Abigail.”


	68. Wade and Iliwynn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is accosted by two strangers

_Here is a church and here is a steeple_

_Open the doors there are the people_

_And all their little hearts at ease_

_For another week's disease._

_And eagle, eagle, towel, and scream_

_I never once left in between_

_I was on the fence and I never wanted your two cents_

_Down my throat, in the pit, with my head upon the spit_

_Oh Reverend, please, can I chew your ear?_

_I've become what I most fear_

_And I know there's no such thing as ghosts_

_But I have seen the demon host._

  * Timber Timbre



  
____________________________  
  


“And STAY out!”

John Marston went careening into the streets of Strawberry, arms pinwheeling. He landed with both palms skating painfully over the rocky gravel, kicking up dust. The bartender standing in the batwing doors of the saloon flung Arthur’s hat after him with an angry flourish.

“COME OVER HERE AND SAY THAT!” John roared, rising unsteadily to his feet and snatching Arthur’s hat up from the dirt. “I GOT HALF A MIND TO -!”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, just take your drunk ass on HOME for a change, boy!” the bartender snapped, waving a dismissive hand.”I been putting up with your monkeyshines all damn week, I think you oughta find someplace else to soak ‘sides here from now on. G’on, now, ‘fore I call the law. Up in here knockin’ out my patrons and smashin’ up my bar. _Lord_.”

He was striding back into the saloon, which was rife with drunken laughter and rippling piano, the batwing doors swinging shut behind him. John stood in the dust and growing darkness a moment, breathing hard, staring at the light and merriment with an angry, affronted expression on his face, then flapped a hand and turned away, staggering a little.

Eli was hitched to the post some ways off, one hoof resting on its tip at his leisure, gazing backwards towards John with an unmistakably wry expression, his long black tail flicking idly.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” John muttered waspishly, eyeing him. “He started it.”

Eli snorted, ears swiveling. John pulled himself into the saddle, listing dangerously, and wheeling Eli around kicked him into a canter, starting away from town.

It had been a week or so since John had returned from Mount Hagen, where Micah, Dutch and Rane had all met their doom, and he had not spent his time well. He’d found himself drawn to the saloon like a moth to light, spending each day after the ranch’s work was through sitting at the bar and pounding whiskey until he was knee-walking drunk and belligerent. The barkeep had tolerated his boisterous warmongering patiently enough - John had been met with fisticuffs nearly every day that week, and had the fat lip and swollen eye to prove it - until tonight, when John had smashed a barstool across a man’s back for looking at him sidelong, breaking it into bits. Rowdy drunkards with big mouths were one thing; boys busting up property over a side eye, now, that was something else.

It was getting towards dusk, the sun hanging red and gorgeous over the spring countryside, but even this didn’t do much to buoy John’s spirits. He was hiding it with boozing and fighting, but he felt low indeed. His thoughts were never far from Rane Roth, or the image of her lean, blood-smattered body lying in the snow. He’d taken to carrying her erstwhile sword around with him, hung on his saddlebag, even though he hadn’t the veriest idea how to use it (he’d tried once or twice, but it was heavy and awkward and he’d nearly lost a thumb trying to twirl it the way Rane once did).

He was on the outskirts of Strawberry, clutching Eli’s bridle with one loose hand and letting his head tip back on his shoulders, lax, when the two strangers accosted him.

It was remarkably quick, and even if John had been sober he wondered later whether or not he’d have been able to elude them. There was a loud, sharp command that he didn’t understand - _daro rokko!_ \- and Eli came to an immediate skidding halt, his hooves kicking up dust. John fumbled for the bridle, trying not to go ass over end into the dirt.

“What in the livin’ _hell_ , Eli -?”

“John Marston?”

John turned, startled. He was surprised to see two riders there. One was a fantastically beautiful woman, tall and slender astride a white mare, with a curious little tiara of interwoven green and silver sitting atop golden hair that dropped to her mid-back. The other was a man, perhaps five or six years John’s senior from the look of him, tow-headed and unshaven and ruggedly handsome, wearing a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Both wore swords on their hips much like Rane once had, and both were dressed in curious garb - dark green cloaks that wafted back over their mounts’ hindquarters, and open-throated white tunics. There was something faintly familiar about the man, though John couldn’t place it out of hand, not in his current state. Nor did he particularly want to. Armed strangers were not something he was too keen to entertain just this moment.

“Can I fuckin’ help you with somethin’?” John asked sharply, looking between them. His hand had drifted to the butt of his gun and lingered there now. “I’m just tryin’ to get home, I don’t want no more damn tr - _hic_ \- trouble tonight.”

“We aren’t here to start any trouble, buddy,” said the man, lifting one hand palm-out. He spoke with a faint Southern timbre. “We just wanna talk to you. Or _she_ does, I guess.”

He cast a glance sidelong at his companion, who offered John such a genuine, sunny smile that he felt some of his reticence melt away.

“We mean no harm,” she said. Her voice was husky, lovely and warm. “I believe we may have a mutual friend.”

“Mutual friend, huh?” John eyed her suspiciously. “I ain’t never met you before in my life, miss. Neither one of ya.”

“We come from overseas, far and away.” The woman gestured behind her. “Come. We much desire to speak to you, and the hour grows late.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you people.”

“Well, buddy, you just might find that you do, when you hear what we have to say,” said the blonde man a trifle restively. John eyed him from beneath Arthur’s hat, wavering a little.

“That so?”

The man nodded. “Damn straight, buddy. Yea, verily.”

“You got a funny way of talkin’, mister.”

“Well, I guess I’ve heard worse said about me.” The man gestured impatiently. “Listen to this good lady over here and come with us. I don’t care much for this little town, it gives me the creeps right down to my boots.”

John looked between him and the woman a moment longer, lips lifted into a little mistrustful sneer, his blacked eye dark and grim in the growing dark.

“And how do I know this big feller ain’t gonna try to knife me and take me for what I got in my pockets, lady?” he said at last, lifting a chin.

At this, the blonde man threw his head back and laughed heartily. Again, John was stricken by the familiarity of him. The set of his shoulders, maybe, or the tilt of his grin? He was almost positive that he had met this man before, though he couldn’t recall when.

“Boy, what of yours do you think I’d want, huh?” he asked, still smiling. “You got a big ass ol’ estate hidden in them skinny drawers or something? Couple-few stacks I can make my fortune with, retire young?”

“Wade.” The woman’s voice was a touch remonstrative. “You are being rude.”

The man scoffed, looking affronted. “ _Rude_ ? Iliwynn, that guy just straight-up asked me if I was gonna steal his shit off of him! How the hell you gonna talk about _me_ being rude?”

The woman - Iliwynn - cast the man a dire look. “You embarrass me, _Undunai_. Hush.”

“Yeah, well -”

“ _Hush,_ I say. _Quillë_.” Iliwynn offered John a bright, apologetic smile. “Forgive my companion, he speaks far too quickly. Please.” She gestured again. “Come. We will not take up much of your time, Mister Marston. Nor will we harm you.”

John was eyeballing the blond man, who was still chuckling and massaging the bridge of his nose, then nodded. “Yeah, okay. Lead on. I got a few, I guess.”

He followed them into the forest some ways away, where they had clearly set up camp. Neither of them addressed him during their ride, but they spoke plenty between themselves, in a language John did not understand. Much like the man with the ponytail, it seemed familiar to him, somehow, though distantly. He was too drunk and tired to ruminate much on the matter, all things considered. Mostly, he was curious, and with good reason; no one in Strawberry was supposed to know his true name, and the fact that these strangers had come upon him and called him out like that was a trifle worrisome. At the very least, he wanted to see where they came from, and how they knew who he was.

At length, the three came upon a sparse little billet in the forest, not much more than a campfire and a pair of cots. John dismounted Eli and hitched him, looking suspiciously around him as he tied the stallion off. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around, and the camp was scant; they didn’t have many belongings, save the two horses they’d ridden in on. Once they’d hitched, the two strangers took a seat before the waning fire, flickering in the low dusklight.

“Your fire’s fixin’ to go out,” he muttered, lifting his chin at it as he took a seat. “Oughta stoke it.”

The blond man pulled something from his pocket - something John recognized at once - and pointed it.

“ _Incendio_.”

The fire sprang into fullness, casting its red glow over the little clearing. John looked at the blond man, shocked.

“That’s a wand!”

“Sure enough, mister Marston.” The man was stowing it away, glancing at Iliwynn. “I guess you might be right about him, hearing a muggle talk that way. Lucky MACUSA isn’t popping up outta the bushes to tackle him.”

This term, too - MACUSA - rang a bell deep in John’s memory, though once more he could not recall where he knew it from. He eyed them.

“Who are y’all, anyway?”

Iliwynn touched the base of her throat and inclined her head, rather decorously. “I am Iliwynn Talaeos, daughter of Elrohir. I am the _cáno_ of Ylle Thalas.”

“The _what_ of _what_?”

“Means she's the boss back home,” the blond man supplied, smirking.

John turned his eyes toward him. When he spoke, his voice was a trifle hostile. He wasn’t sure he liked this guy. He had a smart mouth, and John was too drunk for monkeyshines.

“And who are _you_ , exactly?”

“This is Wade Roth,” said Iliwynn, gesturing. “He is my foremost lieutenant, and a _maethor_ of my city. A general, if you will.”

“Roth.” John was looking between Iliwynn and Wade, frowning. “I believe I heard that name before.”

Suddenly, the familiarity of the blonde man was starting to come clear. His mannerisms, his strange accent, the shape of his face, the high cheekbones, even the little lilt of his smile and the way his eyes turned up at the corners . . . they were Rane to the life. He couldn’t possibly be her father - he was far too young - but a sibling, maybe? An uncle? He could hardly believe he had not noticed it before.

“You got kin, name of Rane, mister? You look an awful lot like a friend of mine, now that I notice it.”

“Well.” Wade sighed. “That’s kinda why we’re here.”

“My city received a raven from Hostas, in Guarma, some time ago,” said Iliwynn slowly. “Regarding a woman who took shelter in their house. Black of hair and lovely, as they said, wielding heavy Elven steel with great skill.”

“Yeah, they were stuck there for a piece, years ago.” John laughed, uncertain. “‘Black of hair and lovely, wielding heavy Elven steel,’ huh? Yeah, that sounds like her, alright.”

Now that the resemblance had been established in his mind, John found himself eyeing Wade helplessly, his eyes skating over the other man’s face. It was uncanny, how similar to Rane he was. Wade met his gaze, a touch insolent.

“You see something green, boy?”

John averted his gaze, self-conscious. “It’s just that she favors you, is all. Sorry, mister.”

Wade cast a rather long-suffering look at Iliwynn, who was watching him.

“Iliwynn, this is getting a little bit too strange for my taste,” he muttered, low. “This kid over here saying how she looks like me, now? The hell is all this, anyways? I’d know damn good and well if I had a daughter.”

Iliwynn touched his arm gently, her gaze stern and unwavering. “We must unravel this. That’s all. _Sérë_.”

“ _Daughter_?” John was a little astonished. “You can’t be more than, what, thirty-five?”

Wade laughed, low, shaking his head. "How old are you, Mister Marston?"

John recoiled, a little taken aback. "Why, I'm twenty-nine."

"Well then, boy, I’ve got six goddamned centuries on you, don’t try to tell me I’m too young for a kid.” Wade gestured towards Iliwynn. "What exactly do we want with this kid, again?"

"Did Rane Roth ever speak of either of us?" Iliwynn asked John, turning to him.

“Yeah, a couple times. Mentioned you both by name, matter of fact,” John added, lifting his chin towards Wade. "Talked about this one a _lot_."

“Like hell she did,” said Wade at once, but he looked, for the first time that evening, a little disquieted. “She told you my _name_?”

John nodded. Wade scoffed.

“ _My_ name? Wade? Wade Roth? She gave you _that name_?”

“Yessir, she did.”

"Can't be. Never met anyone by that name before in my life."

"Well, she knew an awful lot about you, for somebody who you never met."

“Iliwynn, what in the living hell is going on?” Wade snapped abruptly, turning at her. Iliwynn looked back at him calmly, her hands clasped in her lap, eyes gentle and patient. “You drag me out into these God-forsaken shit-stinking boondocks talking about some daughter I don’t have, and here goes this stranger -!”

“Wade, peace you.”

“No, peace _yourself_!” Wade snapped, quite put out. He sounded a trifle uneasy. “I don’t know what the hell we’re doing out here in the middle of goddamned nowhere, Iliwynn, asking after some damn kid I don’t have, I don’t even -”

“ _Undunai_.” Iliwynn’s voice was sharp. “Compose yourself, please.”

She offered John a rather placatory look as Wade stared off sullenly.

“I believe I must explain myself,” she said. John snorted.

“Well yeah, I’d sure appreciate it, lady, I still don’t know what I’m doin’ out here.”

“I must lead by advising you that we do not know your friend, Rane Roth,” she went on. "It is a name I am not familiar with, and I am familiar with all my kin, distant and near."

“Then what the hell are you both doing fucking with my evening?” John leaned over one knee, looking at them admonishingly. “You just havin’ me on or something? Hell, I coulda been home with my wife and kid, rather than -”

“John, I believe the reason we do not know her is that Rane may not exist yet.” Iliwynn leaned forward, meeting his eyes. “She comes later. Perhaps much later. Do you understand? Did she ever speak of such things?”

John hesitated. “Yeah, she did, actually.”

“And when - ?”

“She talked about 1996.”

Wade and Iliwynn exchanged a significant look. John scoffed.

“Look, she said a lot of shit, and that wasn't even close to the craziest.”

“She was _born_ in 1996?” Wade asked roughly.

John hesitated. “No - she - well, she told me her daughter was -” John cast about. “She said she was twenty-six when I met her. Hey, look, what the hell is going on, anyway? I don’t understand none of this, she’s been dead goin’ on a week now, what the hell is the difference?”

“ _Dead_?” said Iliwynn sharply.

“Yes ma'am, she was shot.”

Iliwynn sat back, watching him thoughtfully. “You are certain?”

“Oh, I'm certain, alright. I was the one who buried her in the ground, miss.”

Iliwynn exchanged a glance with Wade, who was watching her uneasily.

“I still think you’re all the way wrong about this shit, Iliwynn. That girl wasn’t mine, they just had it wrong in Hostas, is all. You know how they get, all up in arms about every little thing -”

“No,” Iliwynn replied coolly. “I am still quite sure that -"

“Hey, will one of y’all tell me what the HELL is goin’ on, huh?” John said loudly, sitting up and fixing both Wade and Iliwynn with sharp, cold looks. He pulled Arthur’s hat from his head and dropped it in his lap, his face contorted with anger. “It’s late as hell and I still can’t figure out what the fuck you all want from me, askin’ after my dead friend, and I don’t much care for none of it, so why don’t you tell me what you need outta me so I can be on my way? Huh? I’m havin’ a hard enough time dealin’ with her bein’ gone as it already is.”

Iliwynn was watching John perceptively. “You were in love with her.”

John hesitated, flushing, some of his anger melting away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it in the bonfire and sticking it into the corner of his mouth, his heart beating a little hard.

“I don’t see what that has to do with nothin’.”

“Look, we’re just confused, is all,” said Wade, waving a hand. John turned his eyes towards him, trying to ignore the knowing look on Iliwynn's face. “I don’t have a daughter, mister Marston, and the fact that we got this message from Limdur Eilric is a little bit troublesome. He ain’t exactly the sort to make accusations without good cause.”

“Well, he ain’t the sort to do nothin’ anymore,” said John. “He stabbed her through the chest and got shot dead for his troubles, way I heard it.”

Iliwynn and Wade exchanged a significant look. Wade cleared his throat.

“Yeah, we heard about that. Way it was told to us, some filthy gunslinger put a bullet in his -”

“Hey, that’s my FRIEND you’re talkin’ about, mister!” John shouted, suddenly angry, leveling a finger. “He ain’t a filthy NOTHIN’! So you just watch your mouth, talkin’ about Arthur!”

“Boy, you better take yourself down a notch before you talk to me that way,” said Wade dangerously, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’ll skewer your punk ass, see if I won’t -”

“Wade! WADE!” Iliwynn’s voice was harsh. She gave John a gentle smile. “Please, Mister Marston -”

“What the hell you want from me?” John asked again, his voice harsh. “What the hell you want? Huh? What can I help ya with? Rane’s dead in the ground a week now, I don’t have nothin’ for ya, do I? I don’t know nothin’ about none of this shit you’re talking about, and when that feller on Guarma got bushwhacked I was sitting my ass in a jail cell, I wasn't even there. So what do you want? I still ain't heard it.”

Iliwynn was looking at him, silent, her mouth thin.

“Well, _say_ somethin’!” John burst out, impatient.

“Hey, you watch your MOUTH, boy, that’s the _cáno_ of Ylle Thalas you’re talking to!” Wade snapped waspishly, looking affronted.

“ _Undunai_ , stop.” Iliwynn waved a hand. Her eyes were still on John. “Mister Marston, may I tell you what I believe? With regards to your friend, Rane Roth?”

John felt his shoulders sink a little at the sound of her name spoken by another. Her face, lovely and angular, swam before him, heartbreaking in its clarity.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said softly, a little reticent. “Please.”

“Perhaps we can speak alone.”

“Oh, what the hell,” Wade remarked at once, looking put out. Iliwynn cast him such a dire look that he quailed a little beneath it, looking uncharacteristically chastened.

“ _Stay - here_ ,” she commanded imperiously, and beckoned to John, getting to her feet. “Come with me. We will speak alone. With no interruptions,” she added, glancing at Wade.

He lifted both hands as John got up and started after the lovely blonde woman. “Whatever you say, boss lady.”

“ _Tolo ar’nin,_ ” said Iliwynn, gesturing. She shook her head, seeming to remember herself. “Come with me, I mean. We must speak.”

John did, following her lean form away from the firelight.


	69. The Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilwynn and Wade discuss Rane with John

_And I wished for so long. Cannot stay._

_All the precious moments. Cannot stay._

_It's not like wings have fallen. Cannot stay._

_But still something's missing. I cannot say, yeah._

_Holding hands are daughters and sons._

_And their faiths are falling down, down, down, down._

_I have wished for so long. How I wish for you today._

_Will I walk the long road? Cannot stay._

_There's no need to say goodbye._

  * **Pearl Jam**



  
_____________________________

Iliwynn led John away from the bonfire where Wade sat. John was agitated, and still drunk from his time spent at the pub, but something about her presence was comforting, somehow, making him feel calm and relaxed in spite of himself. She walked at his side, slow and unhurried, hands clasped at her back, light blue eyes on the growing dusk sky. It was red and purple, shot through with bright yellow clouds and undeniably beautiful. John glanced sidelong at her.

“That feller sure seems high-strung,” he remarked, gruff. “Comin’ after me a little bit there, wasn’t he?”

Iliwynn laughed. “Wade is . . . well.” She hesitated. “He is difficult at times. His temper is almost as quick as his tongue. And bullheaded,” she added, a little wearily. “I am a shepherd and he is a cat, often, if you understand.”

John chuckled, rubbing his chin. “Sounds an awful lot like Rane. Stubborn as a damn mule and mouthy as hell.”

“Perhaps blooded.” Iliwynn sighed, stopping and facing John. They were a little ways outside camp, near where the horses were hitched. Glancing back, John could see Wade watching them, one hand massaging his unshaven chin. “I will tell you what I know of her, if you’d hear it.”

“I’d hear it, sure. If your friend over yonder don’t bellyache too hard.”

“Ignore him,” she said wryly, glancing back at Wade. “He does not feel our journey to this country to ask after this woman was warranted, and he will protest until the bitter end. That is his nature, such that it is.”

“Can he hear us, you think?”

“Perhaps,” said Iliwynn thoughtfully.

“Well, Rane could hear doggone everything. Friend of mine said one time he bet that she could hear my heart beating from fifty yards away.”

Iliwynn laughed at this outright. The sound was tinkling and genuine, with no trace of malice.

“I believe he may have exaggerated, then.” Iliwynn was eyeing him, wringing her hands. “John Marston, did Rane ever mention the word ‘ _peredhil_ ’ to you?”

John considered this. “Nah, can’t say that she did.”

“Did she speak of her mother, then?”

“Yeah. She said she was mortal, that she was human. Just her dad what was a Sindarin. _That_ feller, I guess, even though he looks green enough to be her brother.”

John gestured back towards Wade, who lifted a wry hand to acknowledge this. John scoffed.

“You _sure_ he can’t hear us?”

Iliwynn ignored this. “She spoke of a mortal mother?”

“Sure. Told me once she was the only one with a human mother and a Sindarin daddy. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if she was just talkin’ crazy or not.”

Iliwynn leaned back, crossing her arms across her chest and staring off into the growing night, her brow furrowed.

“What’s that mean, miss? That word?”

Iliwynn sighed, massaging her brow for a moment. “There is a prophecy of a half-Elf, John Marston - a _peredhil_ \- that would be born of a _maethor_. I believe that -”

“ _Not THIS_ _maethor_!” Wade called from the fire, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Eavesdropping!” Iliwynn cried back, her eyes dire. “ _Pusta,_ I say! Until we return!”

Wade subsided, shifting his weight. Iliwynn turned her eyes back to John’s, sighing.

“I believe that Rane is that _peredhil_ , and that when she passes from one place, she returns in another. She may be born to _Undunai_ years hence, as she said, and then perhaps she perishes, and manifests here.”

“Jesus Christ.” John was staring at Iliwynn, a trifle horrified. “She just . . . dies and then comes back someplace else? Over and over?”

Iliwynn nodded. “I cannot say for sure, because the prophecy is difficult to decipher. But it is my belief, yes.”

“Forever?”

Iliwynn nodded. “It would appear so.”

“ _Why_?” John could not keep the unbelieving revulsion from his voice. The idea of Rane suffering this sort of conditional immortality, laboring through multitudes of realities for all of eternity, was almost too sepulchral to entertain. “Christ, I was likin’ to think she was at peace somewhere. That’s goddamned fuckin’ horrible. Forgive my mouth.”

Iliwynn watched him, shifting her weight, her expression sympathetic. “John Marston, again, I cannot say for certain. I have only theories. It may be that your friend Rane Roth is indeed at peace in _mithlond_ , far away across the seas.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Iliwynn looked at him a moment, then shook her head. “No, John Marston. I do not. I believe that her fate lies still onward.”

John took a step back, running both hands down his face. This was startling news. He had attempted to dress his broken heart the past few days not just with copious amounts of whiskey but also with the idea of Rane resting easy. To be told that she was being flung hither and yon to travail elsewhere again and again without rest was a deathly, bleak idea, sweeping all the trifles of his carefully clipped grief neatly away. It was suddenly as close as if she had died yesterday.

“Why’ve y’all come here?” he asked Iliwynn, for what felt like the tenth time, his voice rife with this new grief. “This hurts me to hear, miss, and I don’t know that I care to know any more, my peace of mind is already in bits as it is.”

“We sought information, but we seek something else, as well,” said Iliwynn, meeting his eyes, clearly seeing the end of his patience for what it was. “Something that belonged to h -”

“You want her sword, but you can’t have it.” John’s voice was a trifle cool. “That’s not mine to give, and I ain’t too keen to part with it, it’s all I got that belonged to her besides Eli over there.”

Iliwynn’s gaze met John’s, unmoving and unsmiling. John returned it with a little difficulty; it was like staring into the sun, so piercing was her gaze.

“Come,” she said gently, starting for the fire again, turning from him without fanfare.

Wade was waiting for them, boots crossed in front of him, leaned back at his leisure.

“Y’all exchange enough secrets to get along with?” he asked them heartily. “I can clap my hands over my ears and sing a song if it helps to -”

“ _Undunai_ , you TEST me this evening!” said Iliwynn, her voice suddenly sharp and loud. The effect was instantaneous; her gentle, placid composure vanished, replaced with a hard, fearsome affect that was rife with unsuspected authority and power. Though John was not the subject of her ire, he felt his arms break out in gooseflesh at the sound of her voice; Rane had done similarly a time or two, flashing out and showing her teeth this way, and he had forgotten how viscerally it had affected him. “You speak far too quickly of this as if it is folly, with your dismissive words! You KNOW it is not, as well as I! Iluvatar help me, I shall suffer no more of you this night! _Súlon gwanna nîf lín_! Your mouth _exhausts_ me!”

Wade recoiled, quite chastened, lifting both hands. “Okay, okay. _Goheno’nin_.”

Iliwynn subsided, still eyeing him watchfully. “John Marston,” she said, not looking at him. “Fetch me that blade, for I see in your face that you keep it with you as a boon.”

John was hesitant to rub up rough on this woman after she’d gotten after Wade this way, but he was equally reluctant to let the sword go. “Miss, I said before, I ain’t keen to part with it.”

“Fetch it,” Iliwynn repeated. Her voice was flat, but there was still great authority in it, brooking no argument. John hesitated only a moment longer, then turned and clicked his tongue.

“Eli, c’mere.”

Eli clopped over obediently enough, head tossing. John strode for him and pulled the sheathed sword from beneath his saddle, holding it in his hands a moment. It was heavy in his grasp, and he clutched the worn leather sheath a moment, holding it a little closer to him. Rane had grasped it in her hands many times over the course of her life, and the indentations of her palms on the leather were still distinguished, the hilt worn down from her grasp.

“Lemme see that, boy.” Wade was holding out a hand from where he sat. “Come on, now, give it here.”

John looked at him, reticent, then reluctantly extended the sword. Wade snatched it from him, pulling it to his side and drawing with a practiced motion. He held it before him, eyeing the blade, the reflection crossing his face. In the dusk light, with tendrils of his long hair coming free of his ponytail and wavering before his face, he was so strikingly like Rane that it was almost uncanny.

“Iliwynn,” he murmured, turning the blade. “This is Elven steel, damned if it isn’t. And the tengwar . . .”

He trailed off, his eyes on the helm, his face falling. Iliwynn was watching him closely.

“What does it say?” she asked gently. “Her name?”

“‘Rane Roth.’” Wade was nodding, looking thoroughly disquieted. “That’s sure as shit what it says, Iliwynn. They forged it for her, must have.” He glanced up at her, his brow knitted. “That’s _my_ surname. That ain’t right.”

Iliwynn reached out and took the sword from him gently, eyeing him. “I told you what I believed, _Undunai_ , and I trust that now you agree with me.”

“Shit.” Wade sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Y’all can’t keep that sword,” said John, watching them, his hands clenched at his sides. “You can’t, that belonged to her -”

“Bucko, this steel belongs to the Eldarin, not to the likes of you,” said Wade coolly.

“I ain’t PARTIN’ WITH IT!” John said loudly, suddenly cold. “I AIN’T!”

Wade got to his feet, drawing close to John, his shoulders squared. “I’ll die in the dust before I let some sloppy-drunk mortal shit-for-brains from who knows where carry a piece of Sindarin steel like this around like it’s a thing to do, Mister John fuckin’ Marston, and I’ll be happy to send you to hell repeating it if it don’t get through to you the first time -”

“You’re a real SON of a BITCH, you know it?” John retorted fearlessly, chest to chest with Wade. “I always knew she was a wildcat, but I guess she musta had a snarky asshole for a father which is why she turned out that way -!”

Wade drew his wand in his spare hand and held it loosely at his side, still meeting John’s eyes. “You sure you wanna talk to me that way, boy? Because I’m happy to show you what time it is.”

John pulled one of his guns and hung it at his side, flipping the safety with a snick. “I’m sure.”

The two of them stared at one another for a long moment, silent, breathing harshly, then Iliwynn gently plucked Rane’s sword from Wade’s spare hand.

“Wade, stow that. John, you as well.” Her voice was weary. “Had I but known I was travelling with a schoolboy -"

"Hey, he started it," Wade muttered, shoving his wand into his pocket and watching John. "Over here giving me the cut-eye all evening . . ."

"John Marston," said Iliwynn gently, turning her eyes from Wade. "Who was she to you? Was she your woman?"

John smirked a little. "No ma'am, but no small part of me woulda liked her to be. She was a friend, a sorta coworker for a little while."

"My belief is that the _peredhil_ is drawn to a place where she is needed," Iliwynn went on. "Did she aid you, in some way?"

"Oh, boy, did she." John shook his head. "She saved my life, one time . . . busted me outta prison . . . got my wife away from a bad man lookin' to hurt her . . . just last week, what got her killed was helpin' me to take down somebody that murdered my friend and busted up our family. And there was Arthur, I guess."

He laughed, low. The memory of Arthur Morgan in his final few days swam to the forefront of his mind. During that time, John had been fraught and conflicted and generally cantankerous - Abigail's reappearance, Dutch's slow decline, and of course being quite desperately in love with someone who loved his best friend and not him - but even then, he could remember noting the change in Arthur's constitution. He had always been a surly, gruff, cheerless man, carrying out his duties without much joy, but when he was around Rane . . . it was like a different person had donned Arthur Morgan's clothes. He was happy, _genuinely_ happy, for the first time that John could remember.

"Her and my friend Arthur Morgan, they were . . ." John gestured. "You know. I think she gave him a little bit of peace, there at the end. Think she gave him somethin' to live for. And he was a good man, he deserved it. Best of all of us." He shook his head, his shoulders sinking a little, and then said something that had been ringing in his mind for the last week. "I miss him. I miss 'em both. God knows I do. I'd move mountains to bring 'em back."

Iliwynn smiled. She glanced down at the sheathed sword in her hands, then extended it towards John.

"I believe this should stay with you, after all," she remarked, very quiet. " _Goheno'nin_."

"Iliwynn, that's a damn Eldarin blade, what are you -?"

"Bite your tongue, Undunai." She pressed the sword into John's hands, and he took it, surprised. "We must go now, John Marston. Our lands are far away, and the night grows dark now."

John took the sword, holding it against his chest. "Thank you, miss."

Iliwynn smiled at him again, brilliant and buoying. "Lift your head, child. Better days lay ahead. The darkness does not hold sway yet, though it may seem that way now, on the cusp of your grief. Perhaps someday we will meet again."

With this, she turned, gesturing to Wade, who rose and followed her. Together they mounted their horses and swung them around, and without a backwards glance, they turned and rode away. John watched them until they were out of sight, then turned and loped off toward Eli. He stowed Rane's sword at its usual place in the saddle with almost reverential gentleness, then took Eli's face in his hands, stroking his cheek. Eli snorted, nuzzling him.

"Come on, boy," said John, climbing into the saddle. "Time to go home."


End file.
